


ATATYA

by starlightwalking



Series: Fëanorian Redemption [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Cousin Incest, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Fifth Age Valinor, Gen, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Politics in Valinor, Queer Elves, Quenya Names, Re-embodied elves, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2019, lots of headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 00:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20398906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: The Fëanárions are reborn and embraced by those who love them most, but not everyone is glad that the Kinslayers have returned to Valinor.Featuring: Maedhros the weary politician; Tyelkormo and Curufinwë attempting to make amends; Moryo's struggle with the shadows of his past; and some serious relationship drama with the Ambarussa.





	1. Maedhros

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art: New Beginning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20405779) by [Isilloth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isilloth/pseuds/Isilloth). 

> Hey y'all! Thanks for reading my fic! This is one of the most ambitious projects I've embarked on, in no small part because of the short amount of time in which I wrote it.
> 
> This story is part of the [Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang](http://tolkienrsb.tumblr.com/), and was inspired by [art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20405779) from [Isilloth](http://isilloth.tumblr.com/)! Thanks for being so encouraging and excited about my ideas, I had a great time working with you!
> 
> Seeing Isilloth's art, I knew at once that I wanted to write for it - I've been wanting to write a story about the re-embodied Fëanorians for years, and this was the perfect opportunity. This draws on ideas I've explored in [my other Silm fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking/works?fandom_id=230931), and I'm very proud of what I've accomplished here :)
> 
>   
Some story notes:  
This story features 2 main pairings, one of which is Maedhros/Fingon. The cousin incest tag extends beyond Russingon, however, as there are several background Finwean cousin ships (including nonromantic Aredhel/Celegorm, past Celegorm/Finrod and Curufin/Finrod, and Turgon/Finrod).
> 
> In my preparations, I created backgrounds for almost every elf character in the Silmarillion and a few who aren't elves or are from the wider Legendarium. As such, I've created a lot of headcanons with minimal to no basis in canon, some of which I like enough to adopt for other stories and some of which are unique to this story. I hope you enjoy my take on these characters, relationships, and situations!
> 
> Since this is about the Fëanorians, the question inevitably arises: What happened to Amrod? Per Isilloth's preference, I didn't kill him off at Losgar, but because I personally like the angst that arises from that situation, I decided that he /almost/ died there. Amras and Maedhros rushed in to save him at the last moment, and nursed him back to health between Fëanor's death and Maedhros' capture. He carried his burn scars with him throughout the First Age.
> 
> This fic is rated M, and it includes some violence, trauma, and references (canonical) past character death; while there is no explicit sex, there are frank discussions of sexuality.  
I take a liberal approach to LaCE here - there are cursory nods to the laws and customs, but I treat them as "Laws and Customs" and not as hard and fast biological rules. For more of my thoughts on LaCE, [you can see this essay I wrote](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18423828); I also recently read a chapter in [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20260360/chapters/48023002) whose take on the subject I appreciated (warning: NSFW). Still, I don't dive too deep into it, and the main takeaway is that yes, Elves Fuck.  
There is also some discussion of de jure homophobia.
> 
> re: Names. This fic primarily uses Quenya names, but because it is post-canon, many of the characters (especially Maedhros & the twins) feel very connected to their lives in Middle-earth and prefer to go by their Sindarin names. I tried to be very intentional with who used what names in which language and when; if you're wondering about a choice of mine, feel free to ask in a comment! I had a lot of fun with that part of it.  
One example of this is the slight difference between using "Fëanorian" and "Fëanárion" - the first uses the Sindarin form of Fëanor's name, and could apply not only to his sons but to his whole house and entire people; the second uses the Quenya version of Fëanáro, which he would have used, and changing "ian" to "ion" makes it specific to the /Sons/ of Fëanor, not anyone else related to him.
> 
> I use "rebirth" and "re-embodiment" interchangeably in this fic, but just to be clear, my version of the elves coming back to life doesn’t involve any literal birth. In my interpretation, the Fëanturi grant each fëa a new hröa that matches their old, except without the "imperfections." (A fraught concept I promise will be addressed within the text!)
> 
> This fic begins with the re-embodiment of the Fëanorians, and doesn't delve too deeply into their time in Mandos. Perhaps some day I'll go into what happened while they were dead and the arrangement they came to with the Valar, but for now the important thing is to know that an arrangement /was/ reached, allowing their return to life. ETA 4/15/20: Check out that story [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23675974)!
> 
> Finally: the title, ATATYA, is the Quenya word for "again." Isilloth's art is titled "New Beginning" and I thought "atatya" kept well with the theme of second chances. The all caps was due to my excitement for coming up with an acceptable title, and I liked the aesthetic, so I kept it :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [CW: This chapter contains a brief discussion of transphobia.]

Maedhros woke beneath the dawning Sun, and for a moment, there was no pain, only the warmth of a summer morn in Aman at a time when all was well.

And then he remembered that the last time he was in Aman, there was no Sun, and all was certainly not _well_.

He forced himself to open his eyes, taking in his surroundings. Around him laid five others, blinking and naked save for a pale white robe. His brothers. Alive, breathing again.

Unsteadily, he stumbled to his feet. The sensation of..._sensation_ was unnerving. He had been so long in Mandos that he had forgotten what it was to be. But his new hröa was much like his previous in its prime, and as he wordlessly reached out to help Tyelko to stand, he could feel his fëa settling into its new home.

Tyelko looked at him, his eyes wide and clear and innocent like he was a child again, and a grin split his face. "Nelyo," he said, his voice a low rumble. "It's good to see you."

Maedhros could not find the words to reply. He grasped his brother's forearm instead, then let go as Tyelko turned to embrace Curvo.

The twins were already weeping as they touched each other's faces. Moryo stood still and shocked, staring at his trembling hands. Maedhros walked over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

He laid a _hand_ on Moryo's shoulder. His _right_ hand.

The contact lasted only a moment before Maedhros, too, shook at the sight of his hands. Two hands. He was whole again. Even his fractured fëa had been missing the limb—throughout all the healing in the Halls, he had never managed to manifest the hand he had lost so long ago.

"Nelyo?" Moryo said after a moment. "Are you..."

Wondrous, Maedhros showed his hand to his brothers. He looked upon them and noticed their scars were vanished, Tyelko's broken nose set right, the bags under Moryo's eyes gone, Curvo's once-sickly hair dark and shining again. Telvo's burns, the mark of his near-escape from the ships at Losgar, had disappeared, his skin unblemished and clean. Pityo's blind eye was clear and focused, no trace of his injury from the Nirnaeth apparent.

"We are...healed," Maedhros rasped. He ran his hand—his _hand_!—through his hair. It was long and bright again, not the mottled and matted mess he had shaved off after his escape that had not grown back the same. "We are...whole."

And yet their marks of pain were not all that was lost. Beholding his younger brothers, he saw none of the unearthly light that had marked the difference between Calaquendi and those who had never beheld the Two Trees. These hröa had not, and would never, bask in the glow of Laurelin's light or Telperion's twinkling. The closest they could come was the distant glow of the Silmaril that shone in the night.

Ai, the Silmarils. The pains of the past Ages were purged from their fëa, and along with it the dreadful Oath. The Star of Eärendil shone not in the daytime, but no stab of fear and fury split through Maedhros' fëa at the thought. He smiled with trembling lips, daring to hope that their trials were, at last, at an end.

"We are not whole," Moryo murmured, breaking that hope with a few soft and sorrowful words. "There are but six of us."

A solemn silence fell upon them. Suddenly the Sun seemed not so friendly and warm, but a mockery of light.

Maedhros buried his face in his hands, shame overcoming the wonder of his new body. Mandos had purified him enough that he could live again, but not all hurts could be healed. A new hröa, even a renewed fëa, could not bring Maglor back.

"Surely if we have been pardoned and freed, Kano will be welcomed home as well," Curvo argued, but Maedhros could hear the desperation in his voice. "If the Valar have judged _me_ fit for polite society—well..."

"We are here in Aman," Telvo pointed out. "We can simply _ask_ the Valar. We have access to them, now."

"And unless he's perished in the moments between our audience with Námo and our rebirth, we know that he yet lives," Pityo added.

"He has not been healed as we have," Maedhros said through numb lips. "Nor punished for his transgressions. What if—"

"It's not your fault, Nelyo," Tyelko said, punching him on the arm. He spared no strength, as usual. "Has Mandos not rid you of that habit? We are living, now. So let us live _now_, not in the past."

"That is easier for you to say than some," Moryo growled. He flashed Maedhros a knowing glance: he, also, had all but lost his mind in Middle-earth, and not even gentle Estë could change the very nature of one's fëa. "If every Sinda and Teler forgave and forgot _your_ deeds—"

"Don't pretend you weren't at the Kinslayings too," Curvo snapped. "Whatever guilt we carry—we bear it together."

"Enough fighting." Maedhros took a deep breath, regaining his composure. "We have been alive for all of five minutes, and we're already at each other's throats? Imagine how everyone else will react to the Fëanárions' return. Curvo is right. We must be united, supporting each other. No matter what."

They bowed their heads, heeding the words of their eldest brother. Maedhros felt a surge of affection for his family. Through all their evil deeds, their love for each other had never wavered, and never would. He was still the fiercely protective eldest sibling he had always been.

"What now?" asked Tyelko. "We're...alive. Where do we go? What do we do?"

"Find civilization," Curvo said. His eyes lit up. "Varda! I can't wait to be in a forge again!"

"We can't just rush in to Tirion and expect to be welcomed with open arms," Telvo protested. "We are still the same people who...who did all those dreadful things. Just because the Valar have judged us repentant does not mean the Teleri will."

"We do not know the way," Maedhros said softly. "We have time to wander. There is a forest around us, is there not? Let us camp, and hunt, like we used to back when..." He blinked away tears at the thought of Fëanáro leading them across hills and valleys, of Makalaurë waking them with raucous song. He was always a morning person, just like their mother.

Tyelko heeded not Maedhros' hesitance, laughing loudly and clapping his hands together. He rushed over to the twins, clutching them tight in his mighty embrace, exclaiming, "The woodsmen of the West shall hunt again!"

"Not this again," Curvo groaned. "Tyelko, you know I love you, but if you drag us across all of Aman on some fruitless search for a white stag—"

"_Silver_ stag," Pityo corrected, grinning. He elbowed Tyelko in the stomach, wriggling his way out of his grasp. "And we _did_ find it after all!"

"Yes, but we didn't _catch_ it," Moryo grumbled. But even he seemed to cheer up as Tyelko and the twins whooped and hollered, racing away from the clearing where they had been re-embodied and into the trees.

"We are ages old, and still they act like children," Maedhros said wistfully.

"We are children, are we not?" Curvo mused. "We have been reborn."

"But not to our mother," Maedhros pointed out.

The three of them—Moryo, Curvo, Neylo—stilled at the thought of Nerdanel. "Mother," Moryo said, longing in his voice. "She...she will take us back, won't she?"

"Of course she will," Maedhros said, grasping his brother's hand. "She would even take _him _back, if he wanted to try."

He didn't know if that was true or not. He said it as much to comfort himself as Moryo. But Fëanáro was not here: he was still in Mandos and would be until the end of days. They had seen him, briefly, but they had little time to speak. He was proud as ever, but not only of himself—Maedhros felt fresh tears budding in his eyes as he remembered his father's whispered words of love and approval.

"_I am proud of you," _Fëanáro had said. "_You led when I could not. You did all you could to fulfill the Oath. You gave all of yourself to my goal. We have been defeated, and they have judged you penitent—hah! Let them think so, Nelyafinwë. Take this chance while it is offered, and live for yourself this time around."_

"_I will make you proud, Ata," _Maedhros had promised. The fire in his father's fëa flared brighter, matching the steady flicker of his own.

The Maiar began to pull him away, back to his prison in the darkness, but Fëanáro reached out to grasp his arm, still missing its hand.

"_You already have,"_ he said fiercely as the Maiar dragged him away.

Maedhros shook his head, clearing the memory from his mind. Moryo and Curvo looked at him in concern.

"Are you alright, Nelyo?" Curvo asked.

He smiled, his lips still crooked like they had been when they were scarred. His fëa remembered his wounds, even if his hröa did not.

"I am alright," he assured them. "As alright as I can be."

Moryo nodded, a shadow behind his eyes. Curvo shrugged and strolled down the hill after their hastier brothers.

"Are you coming or not?" Tyelko bellowed after them. "Don't think we won't leave you there if you dawdle!"

Shaking his head with a smile, Maedhros slung an arm around Moryo and followed.

* * *

They spent a night in the woods, sleeping on the soft, mossy earth. Maedhros woke early, an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach preventing him from nodding off again. After an hour of tossing and turning as the dawnlight filtered through the foliage, he slipped out of the little camp they had made and went wandering in search of berry-bearing bushes that could bequeath them breakfast. Waking up to food was always a nice surprise.

He didn't stray far, wanting to stay within shouting distance should his brothers wake and worry about his absence. As he bent down to inspect a promising plant, he heard a strangled gasp behind him.

Maedhros whipped around, scrambling for a blade he did not carry, all his instincts screaming at him to launch himself at the unknown enemy—

But it was no enemy. At least, he hoped this man was not his enemy, though as he stared at his cousin, watching Turgon's face contort in rage, Maedhros remembered all he had done to wrong him and he became less and less sure that he was safe.

"_You_," Turgon growled.

"Cousin," Maedhros said weakly, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. "It is—good to see y—"

He did not have time to finish the thought. Turgon rushed him, punching him square in the jaw. Maedhros, unprepared and still adjusting to his new hröa, stumbled and tripped over a tree root, sprawling backward across the ground.

Turgon leapt on him, grabbing him by the collar of his white robe. "They let you _out_?" he hissed. "After everything? After all you did, Mandos saw it fit to let you loose on us all a _second_ time?"

"Turno," Maedhros said, rubbing his cheek. He had forgotten how much it _hurt _to be alive. "Please, let me speak—"

"Don't call me _Turno_, you bastard!" Turgon cried, raising his fist again. "You deserve everything awful I can give you, and worse! If I can't face your father, I can face you, and _oh_ do I have ages worth of fury to spend—"

"What age is it?" Maedhros spat, shoving Turgon off him. Of all his cousins, he was one of the few who rivalled him in height, but Maedhros had the advantage in muscle. "The Fifth? Aulë's hammer, Turno, haven't you had enough time to get over this? If the Valar can forgive me, can't _you_?"

Turgon looked as if he was about to strike him again, but there was a rustle in the bushes. "Turno, did you find those berries you were looking for? Ata's caught a hare, he's about to start skinn..."

At the sound of that voice, Maedhros lost all sense of himself. His mind went blank, flashing back to the last time he had heard the man's speech, then the time before that, and before that, all the way back to the first time they had spoken when they had both been children and their quarreling fathers had in a rare moment of calm allowed them to play together.

Turgon froze guiltily between his brother and Maedhros, his fist raised. Neither of them took any notice of him, even as he slunk away muttering under his breath.

"M...Maitimo?" Fingon asked in a hoarse voice.

"Fingon," he breathed in reply.

Fingon took a shaky step forward, reaching out with a haunted look in his eyes. "I am dreaming," he whispered. "You are not real."

A sob wrenched itself from Maedhros' chest, so reminded he was of the dreadful yearning he had felt when a mirage of Fingon had appeared at Thangorodrim. He, too, had believed the apparition of his lover to be a dream, a trick, a falsehood, but Fingon had been real then, and he was real now.

"I'm here, Finno," he murmured, tears brimming in his eyes. "In the flesh. New flesh."

Fingon's outstretched hand hesitated before touching Maedhros' face. Maedhros wanted to badly to lean into the contact, to assure his lover that he was there, but he held still, waiting for Fingon to make the decision himself.

"They said you would never be reborn," he said thickly. "That you would be burning and imprisoned until—until the end of days..."

"They changed their minds," Maedhros rasped. "Oh, Finno..."

At last Fingon's fingertips brushed his cheek. Maedhros melted into his touch, embracing him with an intensity he had not known was possible. He clung to Fingon, breathing in his scent, drinking in his presence, feeling the solidity, the reality of his lover. He never wanted to let go, but then Fingon loosened his grip and began to kiss him and he lost all sense of anything that was not Findekáno, Finno, Fingon, his Finno—

"What are you doing here?" Fingon mumbled between kisses. Maedhros did not want to answer, so busy was he in pressing his lips to Fingon's neck, his collarbone, his chin, his every part. "Maitimo!" he laughed as Maedhros' lips brushed his chest. "Please, I must know."

"We were set free yesterday," Maedhros said, pausing briefly. At that moment, he would do anything Fingon asked, even if it meant leaping again into the heart of a volcano.

"We?" Fingon said. He hesitated, pulling away, and Maedhros keened like a wounded animal. He _needed_ Fingon, had needed him for so long—

At the pitiful noise, Fingon drew him close again, kissing him long and slow. "I'm never letting you go," he whispered fiercely. "Never, never, never again. Maitimo, I'm so sorry for dying on you, for—for leaving you—"

This was _not_ what Maedhros wanted to hear. He cut his lover off by tweaking Fingon's nipple; he gasped and his eyes rolled back in his head.

"Maitimo!" he breathed. "Not _here_! My father is only a hundred yards away—"

_That_ brought Maedhros back to his senses. "Your father?"

"And my brothers, and my sister and her son," Fingon said, staring at him with serious eyes. "Surely you have not already forgotten that it was Turukáno who discovered you? We are on a hunting expedition. It is my father's favorite pastime now that he has nothing else to do and no kingdom to lead."

Maedhros blinked. "But...he was the High King."

"And so was I, and so was Turukáno," Fingon explained patiently. "And Gil-galad after us. But here in Aman, our uncle Arafinwë has been High King since we left, and High King he remains."

Maedhros felt dizzy. "I have been dead for so long..." he murmured. "What age is it, truly? The...Fourth?"

"The Fifth," Fingon said. "The Fourth was marked by Sauron's demise—surely _that_ made its way to Vairë's tapestries—and the Fifth by the sunset of the last Eldarin kingdom in Middle-earth. No Eldar live there now, only Avari and a few...exiles."

"Maglor," he guessed, trying to be frank. It did not dull the pain, but it was better than dancing around the subject.

Fingon's lips twisted. "Yes. There are some others, but they are are wandering loners, much like him. Or so Lord Oromë tells."

"You must tell us everything," Maedhros begged, reluctantly accepting that here and now was not the time nor place for a proper reunion with his beloved.

"Us?" Fingon said, circling back to that topic. "Are...your brothers with you also?"

He nodded. "I do not think bringing them around Turno is a good idea."

"No," Fingon agreed after a pause. "I will leave my family to lead you back to Eldamar, if you wish. They can continue their journey, and come to terms with your return in their own time."

"Will our people welcome us back?" Maedhros asked nervously.

"The word of the Valar will be good enough for some," Fingon said. "Others...not so much. We have been—_struggling_ with the Ainur, of late, in a political sense. Those who are critical of their reign may see your return as a sign that they wish to incite chaos in Tirion. Then again, a sizable portion of that party was greatly influenced by your House in developing their positions in the first place."

"Tirion is not the place for me," Maedhros said. "A villa in the countryside, perhaps." He smiled at the thought. "I cannot speak for my brothers, however."

Fingon kissed him, sweet and swift. "Let us worry about that on the way back," he said. "For now, I must explain to my father what has happened, and then prove to your brothers that I greet them in good faith. Curvo has never been fond of me, and after the Nirnaeth I half expect Moryo to gut me on the spot."

"We have no weapons," Maedhros said, faintly amused. "He would only punch you." He rubbed his cheek and winced. "Turno will leave his mark."

"I'll kiss it better," Fingon promised. He laced his fingers in Maedhros's, then gasped. "Maitimo! Your hand!"

Maitimo squeezed and smiled at Fingon. It did not matter that this hröa had no glow of the Two Trees about it: he was shining and happy all the same, now that they were reunited.

"You are so beautiful," Fingon murmured. "You always were, even when you hated the sound of your own name, but now you are _joyous_. Ai, Maitimo, I cannot express how much I love you."

Maedhros swatted him gently. "Stop it," he said fondly, "or I shall have to cast all reason aside and make love to you immediately despite all the reasons I should not."

Fingon laughed, so sweet to his ears as if it were the Music made alive. "We can't have that," he exclaimed. "Come with me! I cannot wait to look at my father's face when he sees you!"

* * *

Maedhros sighed, leaning back in his chair. He had thought being lord of Himring with Beleriand at war was difficult, but this? was impossible.

He had written countless letters since his arrival at the outskirts of Tirion. He and his brothers had not yet made a public appearance, but all of Eldamar knew they had returned to life, and trouble had already begun to spark.

He wrote to political leaders old and new, some who had been born since his death and others who had never perished and held grudges against him from his first life. He wrote to family he had long forgotten, friends who had become enemies, enemies who had become friends of a kind. He took responsibility for every deed his house had ever done, good and bad and in between and shouldered the burden of making amends with every person they had wronged. That task was truly impossible, but he felt obligated to at least make the attempt even if he knew it would be futile.

But with those that mattered most, he had to keep trying.

Remembering Maedhros' wish, Fingon had found them a villa outside of Tirion to take up at least a temporary residence. He had insisted that Nerdanel accompany him there, not telling her why, before any news reached the city. She had fainted dead away at the sight of six of her seven sons waiting for her: she was no fragile woman, but this was too much, even for a smith like her. She had been unable to decide which of them to embrace first, until Maedhros nudged the twins forward and her tears came in earnest as she took each of them into her arms in turn.

Of course Nerdanel still loved them. It had been foolish of them to ever doubt. Had she forgiven them? For the most part, yes. But after a spark of flint flashed in her eyes at the first mention of their father's name, no one had dared speak of Fëanáro.

She was at the villa now, in some other room, fitting new clothes for Tyelko. They had all received new robes and breeches from their grandmother Míriel, who as of yet was too busy to leave the side of her mistress Vairë, but sent her love. She, too, took them in with no reservations, begging them to visit her in Lórien. They were her grandsons, and she had never known them any other way than the way they were now. She loved them unconditionally.

Maedhros wrote to the other women they had left behind, apologizing on behalf of his father. He begged forgiveness of Indis, who sent a cool but kind response; of their aunt Findis, who did not deign to reply at all; to the wives of his brothers. Curvo's wife, Quildalótië, sent back the letter unopened. Maglor's wife, Ezellë, stormed into their new home to personally throw the letter in his face and call him every name she knew and more besides. He did not blame either one of them.

He was surprised at their next visitor: the Sinda prince Daeron, who had apparently also developed an intimate connection to their house. He had wandered far after the disasters surrounding his sister Lúthien, eventually meeting Maglor in his journeys. Maedhros had been aware of Maglor's sporadic flings with Daeron prior to his death, but it seemed that in the ages since that casual relationship had turned into something far more serious.

"I do not wish to speak much of it," Daeron said shortly, his arms crossed. He looked at Maedhros with a grimace, his Ainu eyes piercing deep into his fëa as they rapidly shifted color. It was hard to meet his gaze, and Maedhros had to shake his head and look away to avoid losing focus. "We suffered much. We loved much. I was—I was his husband. But after the War of the Ring..."

He trailed off. The air around him crackled with unseen electricity, and Maedhros half-expected to be struck down by a bolt of lightning despite there being no clouds in the sky.

"After...?" he prompted, biting the inside of his lip to keep himself grounded.

Daeron rubbed his forehead, and the pressure in the back of Maedhros' skull lifted slightly. "You know the tales, yes? We fought in the east with the Ithryn Luin. When they were called back to Valinor, they invited me to return with them. Maglor—he could not come, not then."

"And...?"

"Well, I'm here now, aren't I?" Daeron snapped. Maedhros flinched, and he took a deep breath, closing those kaleidoscope eyes. "Maglor could not come then. I know not if he could now, even with you pardoned." He sighed. "I would have refused, but he...he told me I should go."

Maedhros nodded. That sounded like the Maglor he knew.

"I missed my family," Daeron said desperately, more to himself than to Maedhros. "I shall never see Lúthien again, but—my parents are here. My nieces and nephews are here, and I had never met them. So I went."

"I understand," Maedhros said softly. Daeron ignored him, rubbing his thumb along his forefinger until a tiny spark caught. He hissed, smothering the flame, and glared up at Maedhros with ice in his eyes.

"I think of him often," he admitted, the brilliant blue in his gaze softening to an earthy hazel. "But I made the right choice."

Maedhros reached out a hand. "Would you like to—" he began, but Daeron cut him off.

"No," he said firmly, eyes hardening to steel. "Even if he returns, he—he has a wife. I know Ezellë holds love for him still, even if she will not admit it. She has the prior claim. And I may have wed him, but the Maglor I loved is not the same as the Fëanorian he will become again if he returns to you." He bared his teeth, gleaming white points that were a little too fang-like for Maedhros' comfort. "I have not forgotten your brothers' part in my sister's fate."

He left after that, refusing to speak to any other of their family, even Nerdanel. He did not return, and Maedhros knew better than to reach out. He had come only to confirm that Maglor yet lived, out of lingering love for Maglor and an understanding of the pain of a lost sibling.

But of all the complicated, pain-filled reunions with those he had not seen in so long, the strangest were with his uncles.

Nolofinwë had continued his camping trip with the rest of his family, too shocked to do more than give faint greetings to his errant nephews. Fingon assured the Fëanárions that he was a different man than he once was, that he respected them, that he would support them—but that he needed time to adjust. Maedhros was not sure he believed that, but he tried not to judge Nolofinwë too harshly. He was a good man, had been a good king, despite their family history.

Arafinwë, however, was another story altogether.

The High King of the Noldor summoned all six brothers to his castle in Tirion, the same place where Finwë once had ruled. The meeting was brief, but he officially welcomed them back to life and politely requested they remain in their residence outside the city while the Noldor adjusted to the return of their long-dead, murderous princes.

"In due time, I will invite you to court," he promised. "But this is so sudden, and it would not be good for you to endure the debates of the nobility as to whether you can be trusted."

Curvo had scowled, and Telvo had pointedly asked if "due time" would be before the next age, but Maedhros thanked his uncle and ushered his brothers out. Arafinwë sent him a message the very next day, asking to speak with him in private. Maedhros had not yet responded: the letter sat on his desk next to a half-finished reply as he struggled to come to a decision.

There was a soft knock at the door. "Come in," he said wearily, expecting to see his mother or perhaps Moryo, who had taken to reading in his study, not speaking but simply appreciating the company of another person.

But it was Fingon who strode inside, kissing him on the forehead. "Maitimo," he murmured. "You look exhausted."

Maedhros shrugged, then winced at the tension in his shoulders. "I knew this would happen, but I'm tired of writing letters. I wish we were not princes, that our family squabbles were our own business, and not that of the court..."

"Mm," Fingon said sympathetically. He began to massage Maedhros' shoulders, kneading his muscle and leaning into the pressure with the weight of his body. Valar, he was strong, as many an enemy had discovered after underestimating him for his height, and for which Maedhros had thanked the Valar time and time again.

Maedhros hissed softly as he felt the knots in his muscle loosen, sighing in contentment as he slowly relaxed. "Thank you, Finno," he murmured.

Finno paused, leaning down to give him an upside-down kiss. "For you, anything."

Maedhros tugged on one of his lover's braids. "Anything?" he asked.

Fingon giggled, merriment dancing in his eyes. "After this long, you still have doubts?"

Maedhros pulled Fingon into his lap. Fingon straddled him and kissed him slow, like they had all of eternity together. And, Maedhros realized with a squeeze of his heart, they _did_. Not all was perfect, but there was no threat of war or death on the horizon.

Fingon drew back for breath, face flush and eyes half-lidded. Maedhros knew this could escalate at any moment, but he had matters of the heart on which to speak. Matters of the flesh could wait.

He pulled Fingon close again, cradling him in his arms, running his fingers through Fingon's many delicate braids. "Finno, Finno," he whispered. "I love you."

Fingon practically vibrated with happiness. "I do not know how I lived without you for an age," he murmured. "I had a purpose, but you...you make it all better."

Maedhros loosened his embrace, pressing his forehead to Fingon's and staring his lover deep in the eyes. "I love you, Fingon," he said seriously. "I know why we have kept this to ourselves, but... Finno, we are bound in every way but one. In this life, with this second chance...Would you marry me, Fingon?"

Fingon's breath caught. He closed his eyes, leaning back ever so slightly, but he did not let go of Maedhros.

"I thought you'd never ask," he said at last. "I knew why, of course. I _know_ why. But yes, yes of course I would marry you. I love you more than anything. More than your father loves the Silmarils."

"Shh," Maedhros said, putting a finger to Fingon's lips. "Don't speak of the Oath. Not now. Not while I still feel free." He feared every day that the pull would return, that he would feel the need to draw a blade again and purse Eärendil's ship amidst the sky. Manwë and Varda had released them from their vow, but they had sworn by Ilúvatar, and they knew not his will in the matter.

"But this shall be an oath," Fingon said. "To me. To us. Sworn to the same gods."

Maedhros hesitated. He knew just how easily such oaths could be broken, how simply marriages and bonds could be shattered. Doom and misery may fall upon such oathbreakers, but he had seen too many relationships break under pressure to trust in vows before the gods.

"I don't want to swear to the Valar," he said slowly. "I don't want to swear to Ilúvatar. I want to swear to you. To me. To us."

"Have we not done that already?" Fingon asked. "I know you kept faith with me, Maedhros."

Maedhros could not meet his eyes. "I told you about Azaghâl."

"And I told you it was fine." Fingon lifted Maedhros' chin, giving him the briefest kiss, only the barest brush of their lips. "I meant it then, and I mean it now. Our brothers may have failed in their vows, but ours stays strong."

"_Our_ brothers?" Maedhros asked, raising an eyebrow. "I know of Maglor and Curufin. Which of _your_ brothers was faithless? I didn't think Arno was even married."

Fingon smirked. "We are not the only cousins in love, my dear. Turno and Elenwë split ways long ago."

"Turno?!" Maedhros exclaimed. "And after all he thinks of us...! But who...?"

"Guess."

Maedhros thought for a moment before the answer came to him. He chuckled. "Ingo?" Fingon nodded. "Of course. You know, Curvo and Tyelko both had their turn with him as well. Those nights in Nargothrond were long."

"I love Finrod, but he's a slut," Fingon agreed. "Bless his soul. How he manages to woo so many lovers with an ass that flat..."

"It's the face," Maedhros said wisely. "And he takes cock so beautifully. Not that I'm speaking from experience."

Fingon gasped in mockery, lifting a hand to his chest. "Maitimo!"

"Oh shut up," Maedhros said with a grin. "I have stories about _your_ sexual history that would make even Ingo feel faint."

"Betrayed, by my own lover!" Fingon exclaimed.

Maedhros shushed him with another kiss. "Cousins in love, you say?" he queried. "He's truly given his heart away to Turukáno, of all people?"

"Finrod is a man of much mystery," Fingon admitted. "I had no idea my brother looked that way to men, but perhaps he is making an exception. At least he can no longer claim superiority over me for his taste in lovers. Though he insists it's not as bad because Finrod's not..." He trailed off, making a face.

"A Kinslayer?" Maedhros guessed.

"I remind him that I, too, am a Kinslayer, but he dismisses that as an accident," Fingon said. "He still hates you, you know. My father has forgiven you, but I don't know if he ever will."

"I'm used to that kind of thing." Maedhros shrugged. "He never liked me anyway. But if we're to be wed, he'll have to find some way to live with it."

Fingon frowned. "Maitimo...I want to marry you. I truly do. But I don't know if it's possible. We are still cousins. There is no precedent, at least not among the nobility. And this is not Beleriand...the laws are more strict about marriage here, if you've forgotten."

"Because we are both men?" Maedhros guessed. "Our aunt Findis married Elemmírë, and they are both women, and Vanyar also!"

"Elemmírë is a woman, but the laws are specific about what womanhood means," Fingon said. "I've looked into this, Mae. She used the loophole about her body to her advantage, for all it is unfair that folk still see her as a man. And they may live among the Vanyar, but Findis is as Noldo as my father, and they see any queerness as a product of strange Noldorin customs."

"Blast the laws, and the customs too," Maedhros grumbled. "I want you to be my husband. I embraced queerness long ago, I'm not going back now."

"And what of your brothers? What do they think?" Fingon was still unsettled. "Even with that set aside, we are still cousins."

Maedhros looked at him. "Finno, we are the worst-kept secret in all of Arda. Do you really think my brothers haven't known for ages and ages? And after you died, I admitted. It was no surprise. Maglor—" his voice caught, but he pressed on— "Maglor supported me. Supported us. He stopped people talking bad about us. Curvo and Tyelko had—_have_ no room to talk. Moryo and Telvo don't care, and frankly I think Pityo understands, about the queer part, at least."

"Turno knows," Fingon said. "He hates it, and you all the more for it, but he's known for years. Írissë knows, too, but she and Tyelko had been hooking up for ages. She doesn't care. And Arno...he's oblivious. I don't think he'd care if he did know."

"And your parents?"

"Ammë doesn't understand, but she is supportive." Fingon scratched his chin. "She just wants me to be happy. Ata, though...I think he suspects, but he's in denial. He doesn't want to know the truth. He doesn't want it confirmed."

"My father didn't know," Maedhros said. "Mother does, I think. We've never spoken of it. But Fëanáro..." He grimaced. "He was too busy with his own passions to see. If he did know, I would not be standing here."

Fingon snorted. "Well, he's the only one who _isn't_ here." Maedhros flinched, and Fingon brushed his cheek. "Sorry. I know you miss him."

"No, you're right," Maedhros said. "We needn't worry about him, and that is its own blessing."

Fingon's eyes drifted over the mess that was Maedhros' desk. "You know, I think I know who might be able to help us, if we really do want to get married," he said thoughtfully.

"Who?"

"Arafinwë has been writing me constantly, asking after your health," Fingon said. "You never responded to his last letter, and that was over a month ago. He's implied that he wants to 'heal the rift' between the houses of Míriel and Indis. I said, that would be a feat that not even the Valar could achieve. I think he took that to heart—you know he's trying to exert his power over Noldolië, oust the Ainur from Tirion without express invitation..."

Maedhros' jaw dropped. "You think our _uncle_ would support our marriage?"

"I think the High King of the Noldor would," Fingon said diplomatically. "If he can unite the Noldor against the Valar—and the Teleri—politically, of course, there's no question of actual _war_..."

Maedhros pulled Fingon close, kissing him passionately. "_Fiancé_," he rumbled fiercely. "I'll write back to him, agree to that private audience, if you'll come with me."

"Of course," Fingon agreed. "But..." His fingers traced Maedhros' collarbone, and he shivered; those delicate hands, no longer battle-scarred and calloused, made their way to the hem of his shirt and began to undo the buttons. "Tomorrow? It's late, and if you're my fiancé now, I don't want to simply _imagine_ how that will affect my feelings for you in our bed."

Maedhros grinned. "Arafinwë has waited a month for my response," he agreed. "He can wait one more night."

"Then ravish me, sweet lover," Fingon said, kissing him slow.

"Of course, my dear fiancé."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For another take on Maedhros' rebirth (and Turgon's reaction to that) check out [this fic I wrote](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18979657).
> 
> The names for Maglor and Curufin's wives are both taken from [RealElvish.Net](http://realelvish.net), as are the names of every other elf OC I've ever created. "Ezellë" means "green" and refers to her green eyes; "Quildalótië" means "quiet flower."
> 
> Daeron as Lúthien's brother comes from an earlier draft of the Beren and Lúthien story. I was won over to this interpretation (and greatly influenced in my depiction of Daeron's Maia powers) by [elvntari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari)'s stories and headcanons! As we get to meet more Maiahíni characters in later chapters, you'll see some recurring themes :)
> 
> I briefly mention Maedhros' relationship with Azaghâl; I headcanon that they had some sort of relationship that Maedhros carried a lot of guilt about. I wrote [a fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18483937) about him, Azaghâl, and Fingon, if you want more details.
> 
> Turgon and Finrod's relationship within this fic is completely in line with [this story of mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19946263/chapters/47231413); I have a soft spot for that ship and enjoyed sneaking it into this story.
> 
> Findis and Elemmírë are a lovely couple in my mind! Findis took after her mother in my headcanon, which is why she stayed behind during the Flight of the Noldor. I also headcanon that Elemmírë is a trans woman and that Glorfindel is her and Findis' child.  
***ETA 6/18/20*** I've now written [a ficlet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24794731) about these two and Elemmírë's coming out process!
> 
> re: The mention of "kaleidoscope eyes": Wouldn't it be fun if Curufin invented the kaleidoscope as a toy for baby Celebrimbor? New headcanon!  
***ETA 9/6/20*** Another TRSB has arrived - and this year, inspired by that little headcanon, I made some art of Curvo and his kaleidoscope, which the lovely 2Nienna2 turned into a fic! You can read that, and see the art, [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289466/chapters/64004767)!  
  
***ETA 6/3/20*** Ever wonder what Maedhros and Fingon's first-time-for-the-second-time was like? [Wonder no more!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24528853/)  

> 
> [I posted this fic all at once, but rest assured I would be happy to receive comments on more than just the final chapter. Thanks for reading and commenting!]


	2. Tyelkormo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyelkormo makes amends with his cousins.

Of all the Fëanárions, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë were the most universally reviled. For all they participated in only two of the three Kinslayings, they had kidnapped Lúthien, had been the most vicious in their murders. At least, that was the word on the streets of Tirion and beyond.

And _beyond_. Tyelkormo was particularly irritated at how their wrongdoings had been exaggerated among the Teleri. For those Sindar who had sailed west or else been reborn, he and Curvo were nightmares to scare children into eating their vegetables. The new Sindarin realm of Avorndor in the forests around Tirion had practically rioted upon hearing that the Kinslayers had been reborn.

The Sindar had invaded one of Tyelkormo's favorite hunting grounds. Not even in his impulsive wrath did he dare to wander there again; he knew he was in danger if he ever ran into a Sinda, and besides, Curvo would never let him forget how stupid such rashness was.

It wasn't fair that their other brothers were welcomed back into civilization with...well, not open arms, but at least a wary acceptance. Nelyo was reunited with his precious Findekáno and happier than ever before; Moryo didn't have any friends to worry about being rejected by; the twins' sins were overlooked nearly entirely; no one even _talked_ about Kano. But he and Curvo? If they dared show their faces in the city they were all but chased out of town.

Not even their cousins would talk to them. Well, Írissë would, but she had never cared about anyone's reputation, including and especially her own. But Findaráto always had an excuse as to why he couldn't host them, there was no talking Turukáno around, and standing in the same room as still-shining Artanis was impossible. Tyelkormo would go blind before he admitted she frightened him, but he couldn't stand to be near her for long. (Was that how the Sindar had seen him, back when he still possessed the light of the Trees? he contemplated. No wonder he was a mighty and terrifying figure in their mythology.)

Still, only being able to spend time with either Curvo or Rissi was driving Tyelkormo crazy. Not as crazy as Moryo, maybe, but _still_. He didn't even have his hound beside him as a distraction and friend.

He missed the forest, almost as much as he missed Huan. Aside from their initial trek through the wood before being discovered by the Nolofinwëan camping trip, he hadn't had the chance to return to the place that was for all intents and purposes his home. Usually, he could count on the twins to accompany him, but they were busy with their own concerns, whatever they were. And Curvo was always in a mood these days, never humoring him enough to follow Tyelkormo on a trip to the further reaches of the wilds.

But one morning when Tyelkormo lay in bed thinking he couldn't take being cramped up any longer, he was interrupted by Rissi storming into his room.

"Rissi, what in the void!" he yelped as she yanked his blankets off him. "I'm not dressed!"

Rissi grinned, putting her hands on her hips. "Like I've never seen you naked before. Get up, or I'll run down the halls informing everyone about your morning wood."

"I'm already up." Tyelkormo winked, spreading his legs. "Why don't _you_ come _down_? It's been too long, Írissë."

Rissi only rolled her eyes. "Not today, Tyelko. Maybe not ever again. I have higher standards now."

Tyelkormo pouted. He tumbled out of bed and pulled some breeches on as they talked. "And yet you still come to enjoy the view."

"It's not the hröa, it's the fëa," she quipped.

Tyelkormo winced. "Don't tell me you dragged me out of bed to tell me how awful I am. I thought you were the only one who would give me another chance."

"I was referring to how much of an ass you are, not the murders," Rissi said. "And considering what my son has done, I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't still love you too, cousin."

Tyelkormo grasped her forearm briefly to show his thanks. She smiled, then gave him a punch on the shoulder. Like him, she spared no strength.

"So why _did_ you get me up, then?" Tyelkormo asked, half in and half out of a shirt.

"My father's in one of his moods again," she said flippantly. "He's decided he wants to dip his toes back into politics after discovering that our radiant High King wants to arrange a marriage between your eldest brother and mine. Finno hasn't had the time to explain things yet, and I _don't_ want to be around when everything goes down."

Tyelkormo's jaw dropped. "They're really doing it?" he exclaimed. "Wait—is it official?"

"Not yet," Rissi said. "But the idea's officially been proposed. Hah, _proposed_, get it? Anyway, the involved parties have been made aware, and technically Ata needs to approve giving away his son's hand in marriage..."

"I'll be damned," Tyelko murmured. "I never thought they'd actually go for it. And Arafinwë supporting them!" He frowned. "Wait, when you said Findekáno hasn't had time to explain things yet..."

"Ata thinks it's Uncle Ara's _idea_, not that he's just being enabler." Írissë hummed. "That this is all purely political, and that Finno is being pressured into it. He doesn't know that Nelyo and Finno have been in love for ages. _How_ he's been oblivious for so long, I don't know. But the truth is about to come out, and I don't want my brother dragging _my_ sexual history into this. And neither do you."

Tyelkormo winced. "You've got a point."

"So I thought it might be a good idea to go on a camping trip until everything blows over," Rissi said. Tyelkormo brightened immediately and rushed over to his closet to get his gear, listening as she continued, "And I thought I could invite my favorite cousins to come along."

"Cousins, plural?" he asked over his shoulder.

"I sent Lómion to wake Curvo."

"He'll love that." Tyelkormo grinned. Curvo was _not_ a morning person, and he was likely to tear Rissi's son a new one for daring interrupt his sleep.

"You haven't met my Lómion yet, have you?" Írissë asked. "He reminds me of Curvo, a bit. Dark hair, moody, but a sweetheart deep down."

"I'm sure we'll get along, then," Tyelko said. He hefted his hunting pack over his shoulder and led his cousin out the door and through the halls of the house in which he and his brothers had settled.

"And Curvo will despise him," Rissi added.

There was the sound of a crash and a yell, and suddenly the air was filled with profanity in both Sindarin and Quenya. Tyelkormo recognized Curvo's voice, but another, slightly higher-pitched shout also rang through the halls.

"Ai, they're arguing already!" Rissi said fondly. "This trip will be fun!"

* * *

They spent two months in the forest, far from the drama of Tirion and the dangers of Avorndor. The hunt wasn't the same without Huan, but Tyelkormo enjoyed himself immensely anyways. Lómion and Curvo spent the first month snapping at each other's heels, then the second with their heads together devising some new invention. Írissë and Tyelkormo caught a massive elk at the end of their trip, and with the help of the dark-haired geniuses, they dragged it back to Tirion.

"Let's have a party," Írissë proclaimed. "Feast on the elk, mount its head on the wall."

"Whose wall?" Tyelkormo asked.

"Mine, of course," she said. "I killed it, after all."

Tyelkormo shrugged. "Fine, but I call the next one."

"It's all yours." She patted him on the arm. "I know my dear father has missed me, so we'd better invite him and my whole family."

"Are you sure?" Tyelkormo asked. "Didn't we run off specifically to avoid confronting him?"

Rissi shrugged. "He won't be thinking about _us_ right now."

"He's been known to hold a grudge," Curvo said wryly. "_Especially_ against his family."

"Are you sure you're not mistaking my father for yours?" Rissi snapped.

There was an awkward silence as Rissi and Curvo glared at each other. Tyelko fidgeted uncomfortably. At last, Lómion broke the tension with a low whistle.

"And I thought _I_ had ada angst," he remarked.

Curvo snorted. Rissi kicked him. Tyelkormo knew better than to get in between them.

Írissë's party came together as fast as Tyelkormo could gut and skin the elk. Lady Anairë offered to host her daughter's get together in her own countryside villa, for which Tyelkormo was relieved. Holding it at Rissi's place in Tirion was a terrible idea as long as Fëanárions were present.

The party was small, just Rissi's immediate family and their plus-ones. Or plus-twos, in some cases.

Tyelkormo had never seen his noble uncle so out of place. Nolofinwë fluttered about, trying to get his wife's attention, but she was much more interested in her dear friend Eärwen. The Queen of the Noldor was not there in an official capacity, but attending for Anairë's company. Írissë had explained that after the Kinslaying, Eärwen and Anairë had comforted each other, and that both had taken much time to accept their husbands' return. Even now, Anairë shared her bed with Eärwen more often than with Nolofinwë.

Findekáno and Nelyo were there as well, their practice of keeping careful distance from each other in public relaxed slightly now that the truth of their relationship was out in the open. Nelyo jumped at every chance to perform some simple act of service for Anairë or Nolofinwë, and Findekáno's efforts to charm himself back into his father's good graces were grating for Tyelkormo to watch. Anairë was gracious, thanking Nelyo with a smile, but Nolofinwë hesitated every time he spoke to either his son or his nephew.

("He's having a hard time confronting the truth," Nelyo had explained when Tyelkormo asked how things were going with his future father-in-law. "But Anairë has been a blessing for us. She told him she'd never see him again if he prevented our marriage. He knows she'd do it, too, with the way she hangs on to Eärwen's arm... She doesn't need him. But he needs her. So he's agreed—for now. We've still other barriers to cross, legal ones.")

The only people oblivious to the tension were Lómion and Arakáno. Lómion proclaimed that Arno was "his favorite uncle" (to which both Findekáno and Turukáno protested) and had dragged him outside to see the new gate mechanism he'd designed for his grandmother's property. Arno humored him, following his nephew like an eight-foot shadow.

Tyelkormo spent most of his time hiding Curufinwë behind his back, wishing he could just get Írissë alone and ditch his brother. Curvo hadn't known that Turukáno's companion for the evening would be Findaráto. Tyelkormo didn't know why Turukáno had bothered to come at all, since he spent most of his time glowering at his Fëanárion cousins and ignoring Findaráto, who spoke with Nelyo about parties in Middle-earth as if no evil had passed between them.

"Can they shut _up_ about Nargothrond's galas?" Curvo hissed. "Talk about the Mereth Aderthad. At least we were _all_ there for that."

Tyelkormo elbowed him. "You just don't want to think about the shit we pulled in Nargothrond," he grumbled.

"Do _you_?" Curvo snapped. "I can't believe Ingo's acting like—nothing happened!"

"Between him and you, you mean?" Tyelko asked. "Would you rather he drag out our dirty laundry?"

"Why he chose _Turukáno_ of all people..." Curvo turned to spit, but a glare from the ever-watchful Írissë stopped him.

"I am glad I did not accompany you all to Endórë," Eärwen said to her son, "but it does seem I missed some delightful parties in your little kingdom." She turned to Curvo an Tyelkormo. "You spent time in Narogrondo, did you not? I can imagine the sons of Fëanáro were the life and soul of the party."

"When we were invited," Tyelkormo joked.

Eärwen laughed politely, and he hurried to explain, "I mean, we were always invited, it was silly of me to say. Findaráto was always...welcoming."

"Can't say the same for Turukáno," Curvo mumbled.

"What was that, cousin?" Turukáno challenged.

Curvo glared, and didn't answer.

"With how much you drink, I can see how it would be fun to have Tyelkormo around," Turukáno said snidely, "but honestly, Curufinwë is not such good company."

"Turno," Findaráto said softly, laying a hand on his arm, but Turukáno ignored him.

"He's barely said a word all evening, at least not that the rest of us can hear," Turukáno pressed. "Honestly, Írissë, I know you're fond of those two for some reason, but I don't see why you have to subject the rest of us to—"

Tyelkormo rose, clenching his fists, but Curvo dragged him back to his seat. "Not _now_," he hissed. "Look at Nelyo!"

Their oldest brother sat stiff and silent, clutching Findekáno's hand. He bit his lip and shook his head as he made eye contact with Tyelkormo. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Tyelkormo forced a smile back onto his face. He had to keep cool, for Neylo's sake.

"Would you rather I brought Eöl?" Írissë said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "This is _my_ party, Turno. And out of my options, I'd take my rowdiest cousins over the husband who _murdered_ me any day."

The air went out of the room. Tyelkormo closed his eyes. He knew about Írissë's fate—they all knew how each of the others had perished. But it was considered terrible manners to bring up their deaths in all but the safest environments, and Tyelkormo had tried his hardest not to think about the manner in which anyone had died up until that very moment.

But now, looking at each of them, he could see it in their faces. They were all thinking it. Rissi, poisoned by her treacherous husband's spear—and Curvo, knowing it was his fault Eöl had been able to find Gondolin in the first place—and Turukáno, blaming himself for not protecting his sister in his own kingdom. Anairë and Nolofinwë, who hadn't been there, absent parents unable to stop their only daughter's demise.

It wasn't just Írissë's death. They were all reliving their last moments: High King Nolofinwë, crushed beneath Morgoth's heel; his successor High King Findekáno, crushed beneath a Balrog's fire; _his_ successor High King Turukáno, crushed beneath the weight of his own tower. Findaráto, slain by Sauron protecting a mortal who died anyway. Nelyo, consumed with self-hatred and despair, casting himself into a fiery chasm with a Silmaril in his only hand.

Tyelkormo had perished with Curvo at his side, coughing up blood as Dior's blade ran him through. He could still hear Curvo's screams, rushing forward to finish off Tyelko's murderer... He knew how Curvo had died too, only moments after he had, surprised by Nimloth's sword after killing her husband. Mandos had soothed their pains, but not even the Valar could erase their most traumatic memories.

Anairë and Eärwen stood still amongst this all, the only ones who had not endured such fates. In moments like these Tyelkormo felt the light that still shone from them piercing through his soul, an eternal reminder that he had failed, had fallen. He had forsworn the Valar, only to beg their mercy and become indebted to them for his second life...and they would never let him forget it.

"How..." Anairë began hesitantly. "How, ah, how is he these days, my dear? Still locked up in..." She trailed off, realizing that perhaps it was not the best topic of conversation.

Írissë shook herself out of painful memories, her eyes hardening. "Oh, he's around somewhere," she said flintily. "He's found some decaying wood to close himself off in. Lómion goes to visit every few centuries. Or at least, he says he does."

"Your taste in men was never good," Findekáno joked weakly.

"You're one to talk," Turukáno muttered.

"Let's not pretend any of us are guiltless of bad choices in lovers," Tyelkormo said darkly.

"Tyelko, come on—" Nelyo began, but it was too late. Turukáno rose to the bait and snapped, "Oh, yes, Tyelko, let us never forget how you slept around all of Beleriand!"

"At least I'll admit it!" Tyelkormo shot back, forgetting he was supposed to be keeping things clean for Nelyo and Findekáno's sake. "Yes, I've had my share of bedmates, including a few people _in this room_—"

"We are all _related_!" Nolofinwë said in strangled horror.

"You think Findekáno and Russandol are the only ones who had illicit affairs?" Curvo jeered, his patience at last run dry. "Let me try my hand—Rissi and Tyelko, and that was before we even _left_ Aman. Turukáno and Findaráto—you thought you could keep that quiet while calling out everyone else, did you? And Finrod's had his turn with Tyelko and I too, you don't want to know the things we got up to in Nargothrond!"

"Curvo, shut the fuck up!" Rissi shouted, but he continued.

"Don't pretend that _you_ two virtuous ladies haven't been seeing each other behind your husbands' backs," he said viciously, pointing at Eärwen and Anairë with a shaking hand. "And even noble Nolofinwë had rumors he was toying with the mortal men under his command! I don't think Lómion managed to ever get into Itarillë's pants, but he sure _wanted_ to. He still talks about her in his sleep, did you know that? I guess being attracted to your beautiful blond cousin runs in the family, Turno. Fuck, I think Arakáno is the only one who didn't break a dozen marriage laws, and he just didn't have the chance. And still, you all have the audacity to think that Finno and Nelyo's faithful relationship of millenium is unworthy of recognizing!"

"Don't bring us into this," Findekáno said sternly. "Curvo, please, you've had too much to drink."

"I haven't touched a single glass," Curvo hissed. "But I'm sick of staying quiet! The only thing more of a mess than our sexual escapades is our kill counts. Maybe we're not all Kinslayers, but none of us are free of guilt. How many mortal men did you slaughter at the Nirnaeth, Turno? Killing men isn't the same as killing orcs. Do you still think about them? Do you still hear their screams?"

"It was Russandol's men who betrayed us!" Turukáno protested. "And at least that was in the heat of battle! How did it feel to know that you willingly, intentionally sent Findaráto to his death? That you turned his kingdom against him and brought about its ruin?"

"His own blasted Oath made him do that," Tyelkormo snarled. "Just like our Oath pushed us into the Kinslayings."

"Don't try to absolve yourself of that blame!" Turukáno cried. "This is all _your_ fault! You know, we had all managed to get along just fine before you returned from the dead. The Noldor healed our differences, worked together, rebuilt our lives—and now you come back and stir things up again. So very like your father you are!"

"I am Curufinwë," Curvo said proudly, "and like my father I will not let lies and injustice sleep!"

"Take our rebirth up with the Valar, not us," Nelyo said quietly.

"Oh, I _will_," Turno hissed.

"Enough!" Findaráto cried, leaping to his feet. He threw his glass to the floor, shattering it. Everyone turned to stare at him, mouths agape.

"Apologies for the mess, Lady Anairë," Findaráto said, much quieter. "But this has gotten out of hand. It does not matter if these accusations are true, whether of murder or adultery or aught else. These arguments are doing none of us any good."

He turned to Curvo and Tyelkormo. "Curufin. Celegorm."

Tyelkormo flinched to hear their Sindarin names. Those monikers were reminders of everything they had done, of everything they had tried to leave behind.

Nothing could have prepared him for what Finrod said next. "I forgive you," he announced. "You sent me to die. You used me for your own purposes. You broke faith with me. But I know the Valar have judged you penitent, and that must be good enough for me. I want to start anew with you. That doesn't mean I have forgotten the past, or that I want either of you back in my bed—"

Eärwen choked on air at the admission; it seemed she had not wanted to believe Curvo's accusations of her son's indecency.

"—but I do wish for your friendship, if you will give it," Finrod concluded.

Tyelkormo stared at him, his mouth falling gently open. He could scarcely process what Finrod had just said. Forgiveness? From him? Despite everything they had done to him? Tyelko had assumed they would never see eye to eye again, if they ever had in the first place.

Indeed, he'd assumed that no one save his brothers or Írissë could forgive him. It had been a fluke that the Valar decided they were remorseful, or else a trick they had pulled to sow chaos among the Noldor. Tyelkormo stood by his decisions, even the most terrible and treacherous; any guilt he felt was not a sign that he would make different choices if given another chance.

But here was Finrod, giving them that chance. And suddenly, Tyelkormo realized that he wanted it.

"Of course," he said roughly. He reached to clasp arms with Finrod, but his cousin pulled him into an embrace. "Thank you."

Finrod patted his back, then turned to hug Curvo as well. Curvo masked his shock better than Tyelkormo, but Tyelko knew his brother well enough to see that he, too, was thrown off-balance by this sudden development. He accepted his cousin's embrace, hesitantly wrapping his arms around Finrod in return.

"You put us all to shame, Finrod," Findekáno murmured.

"I think it's time to call this party quits," Írissë sighed. "Next time, I hope we can be more..._civil_. And Ata, Ammë—" she glared at Nolofinwë and Anairë— "_don't_ pry into my private life again, please. I am an adult, I can make my own decisions."

The partygoers began to disperse, Rissi going in search of Arakáno and her son and Findekáno dragging Turukáno out of the room, presumably to scold him. Nelyo awkwardly bid Nolofinwë, Anairë, and Eärwen goodnight and slipped out of the room. Soon the older generation also departed, leaving Tyelkormo and Curufinwë alone with Finrod.

"You ought to reach out to the others you have wronged," Finrod suggested. "I can see how much this fragment of closure is affecting you. It has been a long few ages; you will find people not as grudging as you expect."

"How can we?" Curvo demanded. "Ingo, you are kind. _Too_ kind. The Sindar will not be so forgiving. Have you forgotten Lúthien?"

"Start with our family," Finrod said. "Orodreth lives in Alqualondë. Offer your apologies, if you have them, and I promise he will be receptive. He has a big heart." He clapped each of them on the shoulder, looking up into their eyes seriously. "I mean it. You have an opportunity here. I remember when I first was reborn. I needed a purpose, some direction. Let this be yours."

He left with one more smile, and Curvo muttered something indistinguishable under his breath. "I'm going back home," he told Tyelko. "Are you coming?"

"In a moment," Tyelkormo murmured. "I need some space."

Curvo shrugged and left. Tyelkormo wandered around outside beneath the darkening sky, mulling over the night's events. It had been a mess, certainly, but now that everything was out in the open...

He'd never considered forgiveness an option. He didn't think he deserved it. And yet Finrod did...what if he was right? He was sick of being despised. What if he could be better this time around?

He missed Huan. The hound would have comforted him, knocked him over with a sloppy kiss, but he wasn't here. That was just as much Tyelkormo's fault as anything, and the one mistake that truly haunted him.

"Tyelko," said a voice behind him. He turned to see Írissë, her white dress glowing in the moonlight. "Are you alright?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "You?"

She made a face. "Curvo made fools of us all. I don't know if my father will ever look at me the same again. At least Turno might shut up about Finno, though. And thank the Valar that Arno and Lómi weren't there to hear all that!" She sighed, grabbing his arm and leaning into him. "I miss when things were simpler."

"Me too," Tyelko agreed heavily.

Rissi nudged him. "You know, thinking back to better times reminds me..." She snuck her hand up his shirt. "Mm, you're just as muscled as ever."

Tyelko didn't stop her, but he didn't lean down to kiss her either. "Not tonight," he said wearily. "I have too much to think about. Adding this to the mix won't help."

She pouted, letting go of him. "I was hoping I'd help you think _less_. Valar know I want less to think about."

"If we hook up tonight, right after your parents just found that three of their four children are cousin-fucking deviants, will _you_ be able to look at _them_ the same way?" he said.

Írissë grimaced, saying, "You're right. Have a good night, Tyelko."

"I'll try," he promised, but he didn't think he'd be sleeping well for weeks to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will continue to reference the antics of the Nargothrond disaster trio - I borrowed a lot of my headcanons about them from [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14143338) by [quinngrey](http://quinngreyy.tumblr.com/), if you feel like checking that out! (Warning: NSFW)
> 
> re: Maeglin's line about "ada angst": The original line was actually "daddy issues" but that felt too modern - I had to get creative with my turns of phrase, lol.
> 
> [I posted this fic all at once, but rest assured I would be happy to receive comments on more than just the final chapter. Thanks for reading and commenting!]


	3. Moryo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moryo struggles with his own mind, and receives a shocking revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [CW: This chapter depicts mental illness and contains self-hatred and internalized ableism. However, it is focused on recovery and the mentally ill character is treated with kindness and respect by those around him.]

Morifinwë thought that the visions would cease once he was restored to a new hröa. He thought that his time in Mandos, though tortuous, would cleanse him from his irrational fear of the Ainur. He thought that the madness that had so gripped him would abate, that he would be clear of mind again.

Except now, looking back, he wasn't sure there was a time he was truly well at all.

Moryo had always been a loner. When Maglor and Maedhros had gone off to do important adult things, he'd been left behind with Tyelko, who always preferred the company of Curvo. When the twins were born, they came in a set. He, the middlest child, was left to entertain himself.

He managed that just fine, or so he'd thought. But what if his isolation had led to his obsessions? What if he'd always been this broken, this insane?

Moryo didn't like being left alone now, but he didn't want to leave home either. He would find a book to read and take up a spot nearby Maedhros, scribbling away in his letters, or help Curvo in the forges, or follow the twins around the house like a shadow. Nerdanel tried to pry his thoughts out of him, but Moryo didn't know what to say.

In Middle-earth, things had been simpler. He could mask his paranoia with anger or with justified cautions. There, the only Ainur had been Melian and the Úmaiar, both dangers to any Noldo caught unawares. But here in Aman, they were everywhere.

He'd justified his phobia while in Middle-earth. There'd been a reason: any Ainur he ran into wished him ill will. He had betrayed the Valar, followed his father into exile, and there were days—months—years where he was convinced he was being followed by a vengeful Ainu, come to punish him for his transgressions.

The others would sometimes speak of their deaths, by sword or by fire, but in truth Moryo could barely remember his own demise. The attack in Doriath had come at a particularly bad time for him, and the presence of Maia-spawn had pushed Moryo to his limit. It was Dior who had killed him, his fear of death at the hand of an Ainu's brood at last realized, yet in the most mortal way possible: by his sword. The actual details, he struggled to recall; he could only remember the fear, the rage, the cold and terrible silence as took his last breaths.

Mandos had been worse than the Void for Moryo. Námo discovered his fear and attempted to treat it, but the presence of the Doomsman was the last possible thing that could help him. Moryo still felt shattered, shadowed. He didn't know why he had been allowed to return to life, unhealed. Even Maedhros, driven to madness through grief and guilt, had recovered enough to return to society and reconnect with lost loved ones.

But not Moryo. He was solitary by nature, and had few old friends to seek out. And the danger of leaving the house, only to run into one of the countless Ainur who dwelt in Aman, terrified him too much for him to go out and meet new people.

The twins tried to drag him out of the house to attend parties sometimes. Tyelko invited him on camping trips, Maedhros to visit their cousins, Curvo to guild meetings. They had all begun to find a new place for themselves, but Moryo...he could not.

One day a knock came to his door during one of the rare moments he allowed himself to sleep. He woke with a start, scrambling for a knife he didn't have, as a servant walked in and bowed before him.

Moryo stared at the man. "What do you want?" he demanded. The servant looked vaguely familiar. Where had he seen him before...?

"My lord Carnistir," said the servant, "I am Daurin Tórin, servant to your grandmother Míriel Þerindë."

Moryo frowned. "I thought you served my grandfather." He was sure he'd seen Daurin around Finwë's castle.

"I did, after Lady Míriel passed on," Daurin explained. "I fell defending King Finwë from the Dark One, but I was returned to life when his Majesty chose to trade his life for my lady's. I serve her now in the gardens of Lórien."

Moryo grunted. "What are you doing here, then?"

Daurin raised an eyebrow. "My lord Carnistir, surely you are aware that of your brothers, only you have not come to Lórien to visit Lady Míriel. She has sent me to take you to her, even if I must exercise force to do so."

Moryo stumbled backward. Lórien? No! The gardens of Irmo and Estë, where Vairë wove her tapestries... He could not go hither, not to a land of such magic and power, imbued so strongly with the mysticism of the Valar.

"You have nothing to fear, my lord," Daurin assured, reaching out to grasp his arm. Moryo slapped his hand away, shaking with a fear and a fury he had not felt so strongly in so long.

"I cannot," he hissed. "Have my grandmother come here, if she so wishes to meet me!"

Daurin crossed his arms, and Moryo noticed now how the servant's height and size dwarfed his own. "I will drag you hither, if I must," he said mildly. "I would rather not do so, but I am not afraid of you."

At that moment, Maedhros appeared in the doorway. "What is this commotion?" he asked, narrowing his eyes and looking between Moryo and Daurin Tórin.

"My lord Maitimo," Daurin said with another bow. "It is good to see you. I have been sent by Lady Míriel to escort your brother to—"

"Fine, I'll go," Moryo snapped. "I don't need you to tell me to listen, Nelyo."

Maedhros scoffed. "I didn't say anything."

Moryo shoved Daurin out of his room, closing the door in Maedhros' face. "I'll meet you outside in an hour," he shouted. "And don't expect me to stay in Lórien long!"

* * *

Lórien was just as eerie as Morifinwë remembered. No matter the time of day, a faint light illuminated the sky; no matter the time of year, ripe fruit hung from the boughs of trees. Spirits floated in and out of sight, and he trembled every time he saw one pass. He knew not if they were fëar or Maiar, and he did not want to find out.

He hated this place. He couldn't wait to leave.

But, he admitted, it would be nice to finally meet his grandmother. He had grown up hearing stories about her from both Fëanáro and Finwë, who both held her in high regard. Moryo had held the same resentment toward Indis as did his father, but he understood now that he simply yearned for his grandmother's love. There was little need to blame Indis for Míriel's death.

And now, like himself, Míriel Þerindë lived and breathed again. She served Vairë as a seamstress, weaving tales of her house's deeds both great and dreadful. Moryo had seen her tapestries in Mandos, and wondered at their fine workmanship. Perhaps he, too, could learn to weave so beautifully...but not here. Not in Lórien.

Daurin led him purposefully through the trees, telling him the story of Míriel's life in a soft murmur. His words comforted Moryo, gave him a direction reminded him why he dared venture into the center of his fears, though he would not admit as much to Daurin.

At last Daurin halted by a pathway of smooth stones. "My lady weaves at the end of this path," he said. "You shall find her in a gazebo. Go, Lord Carnistir. I will accompany you no further."

Moryo stared between Daurin and the stone pathway. Mustering all his strength and cursing his maddened mind, he forced himself to take a step forward.

The path was long, and every step was a struggle, but at last Moryo sighted the gazebo before him. A woman sat there, her hands busy as she weaved, her eyes closed as she hummed an unfamiliar tune. Her long silver hair was pinned up in a bun, much like Moryo had seen Tyelkormo do time and time again. Indeed, he recognized much of his family in this woman, from Tyelko's silvery hair to the shape of Maglor's nose to the way Curvo's ears twitched when he heard someone coming. And when she opened her eyes and beheld his approach, it was the fire of Fëanáro's gaze staring back at him.

"Grandmother," he whispered, and he fell to his knees before her.

Míriel cast aside her thread and beckoned him forth. Moryo collapsed into her lap, sobbing with more feeling than he had anticipated. She shushed him, holding him close, her nimble fingers running through his hair. He felt her begin to twist his locks into a braid, the same way Fëanáro had done when he was a child, and a sudden peace overcame him.

"You know, when I met Atarinkë, I thought I saw my son born again," Míriel said softly. "But you are just as stubborn as my Fëanáro, yet you fall into my arms just the same."

Moryo let out a watery laugh, wiping away his tears. "I am sorry, Grandmother. It was wrong of me to not come to you for so long. But..."

"But?"

He winced. "It is... hard to speak of."

"Sit beside me, Carnistir, and tell me everything," Míriel instructed. She moved aside to make room for him on her bench, and gratefully leaned into her and told her of his troubles.

"I grew up among the Ainur," he said as his tale came to a close. "I did not fear them then. I know that I have been pardoned, and yet... This journey to Lórien has tried my mettle more than even the battles against Morgoth. What is wrong with me, Grandmother? Even Nelyo is strong enough to...to find himself again. I don't know if I have anyone to find."

Míriel cradled him, and for all it was a great comfort to him to be so safe and loved, Moryo still felt shamed that he needed such coddling.

"I remember my exhaustion after bearing your father," Míriel said slowly. "It was consuming, much like your fear consumes you. I found my peace in Mandos, in death, and then here in the gardens."

"Lórien does not bring me peace," Moryo muttered.

She shushed him. "I'm not done," she chided. "You say you do not understand why Námo released a soul as 'broken' as you. I do not think you are broken, only bruised. If Estë could not heal you—"

"Then no one can," Moryo mumbled miserably.

"Cease this self-pity," she commanded, shoving him off her. "Morifinwë Carnistir, you are a great and noble prince of the Noldor! You have endured much, and it has marked you, but you are _not_ the weak thing you pretend to be."

Moryo fell silent, all the more shamed.

"Your obsessions with Ainur cannot be softened _by_ the Ainur," Míriel said, quieter this time. "The Fëanturi know this. It is why they released you: they can do no more for you. But you are an elf, and other elves _can _help you. There are so many among our kind who have suffered—I am but a mild example. Speak to your brother Maitimo! He endured the torture of Moringotto. Speak to your cousin Artanis! She faced temptation and won. There are those who can help you, who can listen to you. Those who can be more than a listening ear, and give you proper advice that I cannot."

Moryo sat, quiet as he considered her words. "Nelyo has tried to talk to me," he said at last. "And I tried to talk to him. It seems we are the most...unstable. But he has Findekáno, and I have no one. His pains were visible upon his skin, even if they are not any longer. Mine are products of my mind."

"There is a man in Lórien, Nandaro of the Harp," Míriel said. "He was captured from Ondolindë, and taken to be a fool before Moringotto. He escaped and came hither, and now he sings to heal the hurts of others. It is therapy for the wounded soul."

"In Lórien?" Moryo asked.

"Yes," Míriel admitted. "But he is not the only one who has learned such arts. You have a cousin, on Tol Eressëa, who sings and listens to those who come to Aman but yet fear the Valar's wrath. Perhaps he can help you."

"A cousin?" Morifinwë blinked. "Who? I thought all of Arafinwë and Nolofinwë's kin lived on the mainland."

"Have you forgotten your aunts?" Míriel chided. "Findis and Lalwendë bore children, also."

"Well, there is Laurefindil, yes," Moryo admitted, "but Lalwen followed us to Middle-earth."

"Where she wed a grey-elf and bore his son," Míriel said. "You know of Círdan, do you not?"

"Círdan?" Moryo exclaimed. He had not heard this tale before. "I didn't see that in the tapestries! Did you leave that out?"

Míriel pointed to the half-finished cloth on her loom. "Look," she said. He peered closer and saw an image his aunt, standing hand in hand with the Lord of the Havens, her belly swollen with an unborn child.

"I cannot conjure fabric out of thin air," Míriel said with a smirk. "I focused on the deeds of my son and his sons first. Now I reach those of my husband's other children."

"And they live on Tol Eressëa?" Moryo wondered.

"Lalwendë fell in the War of Wrath," Míriel explained. "Her young son, Ilfrin, came to Tol Eressëa after Moringotto was overthrown. He dwelt with Círdan's kin, cared for by a cousin who was also part-Noldo. Voronwë is his name, I believe; the same who guided Tuor to Ondolindë. Lalwendë was reborn and joined them there, waiting for Círdan to sail. He did so at last in the Fourth Age, and their family is whole again."

"And why would Ilfrin help me?" Moryo demanded. "I have not been kind to his Sindar kin, nor the children of Indis."

"Lalwendë is a good woman, and so is her son," Míriel said. "Beg their forgiveness—if indeed they hold any bitterness toward you, which I doubt—and I am sure Ilfrin will be happy to soothe your pains."

"Tol Eressëa is far from the Ainur..." Moryo murmured, turning the matter over in his mind. "Grandmother, you really think I should go?"

She kissed his brow. "It pains me to see you in such distress, Carnistir. I want your happiness. Next time you visit me, do so of your own accord, with no shadow of fear in your heart."

"Thank you," he said, embracing her again. "I will, Grandmother, I promise."

* * *

Morifinwë dwelt on Tol Eressëa for many years. He was surprised by the welcome he received from his aunt, who like Míriel had said had long since put aside any ill will she may once have borne him. Círdan was a completely different man from the one Moryo had known, wiser and older and now sporting a beard that rivalled his grandfather Mahtan's.

Living with them also was Círdan's sister, Hithaer, and her husband Aranwë. Aranwë had been one of Turukáno's friends before the Flight of the Noldor, and Moryo vaguely remembered meeting him before. He had gone to Gondolin with his son Voronwë, ever loyal to Turukáno. Voronwë was an elf of legend, a sailor still filled with melancholy sea-longing from time to time. But Ilfrin and a boat kept him sane, and Ilfrin offered to do the same for Moryo.

Ilfrin was much different in person than how Moryo had imagined him. He laughed loud and often, burst into song at inopportune moments (much like Maglor had growing up), and acted more like a child than Moryo expected from an elf his age. But when it came to soothing sorrows, he knew how to listen and how to advise.

He knew also how to sing. Moryo was familiar with songs of power, used often as a weapon by his own brother, but songs of healing were new to him. Ilfrin's melodies comforted him on dark days, and gave him strength to face his fears. For face them he did: Tol Eressëa was not home to many Ainur, but the spirits of the trees and rivers were part of the Song also and Moryo began there.

It took a long time before Morifinwë felt comfortable in his own skin again. No, not _again_—for the first time. This hröa was new, and even the old one had always before been plagued with waking nightmares and picked at by his own sharp nails to ensure he kept himself on edge. That was a habit he had picked up in Thargelion, one he had been unable to shake until he sought help from Ilfrin.

He grew to be fast friends with his cousin, and also with Voronwë. Moryo had never been one who particularly cared for boats, but sailing around the Lonely Isle with Ilfrin and Voronwë, sea breezes whipping about his hair, he came to understand the joy of the Teleri.

Moryo missed his brothers more than he thought he would, and was delighted the few times the twins or Maedhros came to visit him. Not every person on the island was happy to see Fëanárions among them, but the visits were brief and they had come to accept Morifinwë's presence. Still, he began to long to return to the mainland and reunite with his brothers. Besides, he owed Míriel Þerindë another visit.

Any vague ideas of leaving Tol Eressëa never came to much. He was happy here, and a small part of him still worried that he would fall back into darkness should he return. It was safer to remain.

He changed his mind when Gil-galad came to visit.

Morifinwë had never met the last High King of the Noldor. He had died before Turukáno's rule ended, and Gil-galad ran in different circles than he. But Gil-galad was dear friends with Círdan, and when he sailed to the Lonely Isle, it was thus inevitable that they should encounter one another.

Moryo was out on the sea with his cousins when Gil-galad arrived. When he, Ilfrin, and Voronwë returned home, he was surprised to see Círdan deep in conversation with an unfamiliar elf.

"Ah, boys!" Círdan beckoned them over. "We have company."

"Ilfrin, Voronwë!" The unfamiliar elf got up to embrace each of them in turn. "It's good to see you again." He looked at Moryo curiously. "And who is this, Círdan? I didn't know you'd taken in another stray."

Moryo bristled. He was in a better place than he had been before, but he still retained his pride. "I am no stray," he snapped. "And surely you should know who I am."

"_You_ should know who _I_ am," the elf said good-humoredly. "Or perhaps not. There are many in Valinor that don't feel the need to familiarize themselves with the history of the Second Age in Middle-earth."

"And yet you are unfamiliar with the First," Moryo retorted.

The elf furrowed his brows. "I apologize for the oversight, friend," he said. "Círdan, would you care to introduce us?"

Círdan grimaced, looking between the two. "Of course. Moryo, this is Ereinion Gil-galad. He was High King of the Noldor, after your time. And Gil, this is Morifinwë Carnistir, fourth son of Fëanor. You would know him better as Caranthir the Dark."

Ah. Gil-galad. Moryo knew of him, and relaxed slightly. Perhaps he had been a little too rude before. He reached out a hand to shake, trying for a better start, but to his surprise Gil-galad drew back, his face reddening.

"Caranthir!" he exclaimed. "I knew you had been re-embodied, but...!"

"It's alright, Gil, he's been working with me," Ilfrin assured. "We are friends now."

"Please, put the Kinslayings behind you," Voronwë added. "He perished before the attack on the Havens, you know."

"I don't care about the Kinslayings," Gil-galad growled. He pointed a shaking finger at Moryo. "I care about—about—" He collapsed back into his chair, tears leaking from his eyes. "About _them_."

"Gil! Are you alright?" Ilfrin asked, hurrying to his side.

Moryo stood before him, bewildered. "I don't know what you're talking about," he admitted. "Who is... 'them'? If I am responsible for their deaths, I assure you, I am sorry..."

"You don't even know?" Gil-galad laughed harshly. "Of course you don't. They told me the one time they tried to confront you, you nearly killed them for no reason."

Moryo winced. "I...that does sound like me, back when I jumped at every surprise," he admitted. "Please, Gil-galad. I am different now. Who are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Rýndil!" Gil-galad exclaimed. "Do you even remember them? They fought for you in the Nirnaeth, you know. One of your commanders. Do you remember now?"

Rýndil... Moryo racked his memories for that name. It was vaguely familiar... He called their face to his mind, brown and freckled, shorter and stockier than most Eldar, but with elvish features nonetheless. "I think so," he said hesitantly. "They didn't stick around long. Fled after the battle. Not that I blame them..."

"Rýndil didn't flee," Gil-galad growled. "They went back to their mother's people after their father rejected them."

"Their father?" Moryo frowned. He was on the verge of understanding, and a queasy feeling welled up in their stomach. "But...what does that have to do with me?"

Gil-galad laughed bitterly. "It has everything to do with you, Caranthir. Rýndil's mother was Haleth, Chieftain of the Haladin. They were one of the first peredhel, did you know that? But, of course, Dior Eluchíl was the most famous, because his elvish ancestors _acknowledged _him. I don't blame you _entirely_, considering you didn't even know you had a child, but you could have done more. You could have done so much more."

Moryo stumbled backwards. Voronwë and Ilfrin caught him before he collapsed to the ground, but his head spun and his heart pounded like he was about to be sick. "A...a child?" he said in a strangled voice. "I had a _child_?"

"_Had_ is right," Gil-galad said. He took a long drink from a glass Círdan had provided. "Rýndil and I were in love, did you know that? We had a lot in common. We met after the Fall of Nargothrond, and they came with me to the Havens. But we never married. No, your brothers took care of that. And I don't know if they're still in the Halls or...or if they even went there, but Rýndil's uncles would never have killed them if you had claimed them as yours."

"I didn't know," Moryo said through numb lips. A child? He still couldn't quite process it. Yes, he'd slept with Haleth, though he'd never really mentioned it to anyone. But surely Haleth would have told him if...!

But she wouldn't have, he realized in horror. Not if she didn't feel like it. She was wily like that, and liked pulling the wool over his eyes. And mortals conceived in different ways than elves—she could have become pregnant by merely an accident. He never would have known.

"I have to...to go back," Moryo said weakly. He stumbled to his feet. "Gil-galad, I...I didn't know." _Murdered by my brothers at the Third Kinslaying!_ he thought in horror. _Dear Valar! how awful!_ "I have to—who else knew? Did they meet their cousin Tyelpë?"

"Oh, Celebrimbor knew them," Gil-galad said sardonically. "He knew them almost as well as I did." He took another long drink. "Thinking about you always brings out the worst in me, Caranthir," he muttered. "Rýndil...Oh, Rýndil, I miss you."

"I have to speak with Tyelpë," Moryo mumbled.

"Moryo, I'm not sure going back to the mainland in your current state is a good idea," Ilfrin cautioned him. "You're in shock—this is a big revelation—I can help you come to terms with this, if you just stay a little—"

"No," Moryo said, shaking his cousin off him. "I'm going back. A child...!" He shook his head. "And we all thought Curvo was the only one...I wish I could see my father's face now," he said bitterly. "His only other grandchild, half-mortal!"

"Please, Moryo—" Ilfrin begged.

But Moryo had made up his mind. He had found himself on Tol Eressëa, and the information that he was a _father_ was the last sign that his time here was done. He had to go back, and find someone else this time.

He had to discover who his child had been, and Tyelperinquar was good a place to begin as any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moryo's mental illness is in some slight way an extrapolation of my own. Here he is suffering from untreated depression, anxiety, and probably a form of OCD manifesting in an extreme phobia of the Ainur. I don't remember where I read this, but I came across a fic that portrayed him as suicidal in the Second Kinslaying and that headcanon has stuck with me ever since - this was an attempt to tie that suicidal behavior to a larger mental problem. I have some more ideas around this that I may fic sometime in the future...we'll see.
> 
> Daurin Tórin was an early prototype/kinsman of Fëanor who died attacking the characters who would become Melkor and Ungoliant as they destroyed the Two Trees. For the purposes of this fic I adapted that relationship to Fëanor by connecting him to Míriel; I also think it would be cool if Daurin was reborn after he died defending Finwë only to die again fighting in the War of Wrath, and is one of the few elves to have been granted three lives, but that didn't make it into the story.
> 
> Míriel mentions Nandaro of the Harp; this is Salgant! Tolkien tossed around the idea that Salgant was captured during the Fall of Gondolin and made into a fool for Morgoth's entertainment, which I think is absolutely heartbreaking. If he survived such torment, he would have to have sought therapy himself and it's nice to think that after he found solace he worked to help others as well.
> 
> re: Lalwen's family tree: I'm very fond of the headcanon that Lalwen (the only one of Finwë's daughters to go to Middle-earth) and Círdan had a relationship, especially if it was a ~forbidden love~ that resulted in Gil-galad's birth. However, I wanted to use a different version of Gil-galad's parentage here, but I still wanted to keep Lalwen and Círdan together so I set about brainstorming another child for them.  
I arrived at Ilfrin (probably better known as Littleheart, son of Bronweg) because I have a fondness for the aromantic Voronwë headcanon and have a hard time picturing him with a son. So I thought...why not have Littleheart/Ilfrin be his foster son? And we know that Voronwë's mother is a "kinswoman of Círdan," so he would have a reason to care for Círdan's son. I have more headcanons about Voronwë's mother, whom I named Hithaer (meaning "sea mist"), and maybe I'll fic them out sometime.  
Anyway, I wanted a reason to make this even remotely relevant, so I thought...why not have Moryo take an extended vacation to Tol Eressëa with his cousins? And thus this subplot was born.
> 
> Now we arrive at Rýndil! I love, love, love the idea of Caranthir and Haleth having a brief aromantic relationship and Haleth having an unanticipated kid from their fling - thus Rýndil was born :) [BTW, they are nonbinary and use they/them pronouns.] I've actually started writing [a fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18197246/chapters/43045235) about this whole situation, and I swear I'll come back to finish it someday... However, that fic will take a different approach to Rýndil and Caranthir's relationship - but the prospect of Moryo realizing he's a dad way too late for him to actually do anything about it was too juicy for me to pass up here!
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, I'm going with the Gil-galad Aegnorion theory, another one of my favorites, where Gil-galad is the secret peredhel son of Aegnor and Andreth - much like Rýndil is the secret peredhel child of Caranthir and Haleth. Their relationship was borne out of that common ground. I think Gil-galad is usually very sensible, kind, and wise...but like he says, thinking about his dead lover's deadbeat dad brings out the worst in him. Please don't judge him too harshly here!
> 
> ***ETA 3/19/2020*** Rýndil's story has its own fic! Read "[Cause and Consequence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23223799/chapters/55601719)" now! (This is a different version of their story, where they do meet their father, but if you want more of them check it out!)  

> 
> [I posted this fic all at once, but rest assured I would be happy to receive comments on more than just the final chapter. Thanks for reading and commenting!]


	4. Curufinwë

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufinwë atones for his misdeeds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [CW: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE. You can skip the dream sequence (in italics) if you wish to avoid this! However, if you think you can stomach it, I'd be happy if you did read it - I'm actually very proud of my writing for this scene.]
> 
> The dream sequence doubles as a flashback, and is thus noticeably different than the rest of the fic. It's marked in italics, written in the present tense instead of the past, and uses only Sindarin names.  
re: "fae" and "rhaw": These are the Sindarin words for "fëa" and "hröa."
> 
> This chapter is fairly long, and introduces some headcanons I have surrounding Amras that will carry into future chapters.
> 
> And, finally: Because Moryo's time in Tol Eressëa spans several years, the rest of the fic is happening concurrently with his stay there. Thus, at the beginning of this chapter, Moryo has only been gone for a few months at most.

After Írissë's disastrous party, the last thing Curufinwë wanted to do was speak to anyone he had wronged ever again. Unfortunately, it seemed that Irmo, Lord of Dreams, Master of Visions, had different ideas.

His sleep was plagued with nightmares. He had been able to repress the memories of his death, but after the party... The Second Kinslaying was all he could think about. Terror and guilt bled into his dreams, haunted his waking hours, until every time he so much as blinked, the darkness of Doriath filled his vision.

_Maedhros tells them to hold back as long as they can. Curufin tries to listen, but he is so full of anger; the Oath pushes him forward..._

_They are met by a line of guards—marchwardens summoned home to protect Menegroth from attack. They are not enough, not without Melian's protection. Maedhros orders not to kill them unless they must. Curufin tries to obey, he truly does, but the first marchwarden cuts down one of his warriors and he sees red. Before he knows it, he has killed again._

_It's never easy. Looking into the glassy eyes of another elf, their blood on your hands, their fae drained away... Your own fae is tattered at the edges, bleeding out its light. Curufin isn't just tattered, he's shredded into pieces._

Curufinwë turned in his sleep, clawing at his bedsheets. A small part of himself knew this was not real, that it was only his treacherous memories, but it wasn't strong enough to stir him to wakefulness. He sank deeper into the dream.

_Caranthir charges forward, wreaking a path of destruction. He screams Dior's name, taunting him, goading him to come out and fight. "Or are you content to let your people die for you?" he cries. Curufin is too caught up in the battle to feel anything other than a brief pang of fear for his brother. Caranthir fights alone: it is his way, has always been his way._

_Maedhros and Maglor are together, bellowing commands to their warriors, trying to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. Maglor weaves between Maedhros' swordstrokes, dancing in a rhythm only he can hear. He is preparing for something, Curufin knows. Something powerful. Maedhros stands tall, defending. He cuts down only those who come for him, never seeking out an opponent. He doesn't have to: he is the leader, the eldest, the fiery beacon burning through the gaping wounds in his fae. He is the target._

_The twins are hidden in the trees. They and their archers rain arrows upon the warriors; the strategy is not as effective as it would have been in their own lands. The marchwardens know their home too well, and clamber up the branches to fight them closer._

_He and Celegorm are back to back, working together as they always have. They are better as a unit, fiercer and sharper and faster. United with his brother, Curufin is unstoppable. Celegorm is wildness, he is cleverness. Together they are a force to be reckoned with._

Tyelko... Curufinwë mumbled his brother's name. If Tyelko were here, he would wake him up...if Tyelko...

_The carnage outside the throne room is sickening, even to Curufin. He wades in blood, widening his stance so he does not slip; he watches less experienced fighters trip over the bodies of their fallen kin. When one marchwarden falters in such a blunder, Curufin lunges, splitting him open from groin to gullet._

_At last they see Dior. He is radiant, glowing like a Calaquendi, but all seven Fëanorians can see at once that he has hidden the Silmaril. It may still be on his person, or it may be elsewhere—where is it? where is it? where is it?_

_Caranthir screams and rushes forward into the throne room. He babbles some nonsense about a Maia's bastard, coming completely unhinged. Curufin exchanges one look with Celegorm, and they hurry to their brother's aid._

_They can't get close enough. Behind him, Curufin can hear Maglor's voice raised in a song of power, and the earth trembles—the walls outside the throne room collapse. They are trapped inside. The fighting intensifies; Curufin and Celegorm protect Caranthir's back, holding back anyone who tries to assault him in his march to Dior, but they cannot reach him._

"_What is he doing?" Celegorm bellows. "This is madness! He'll be killed!"_

_Caranthir has cast down his shield. He holds a blade in either hand, and he leaps toward Dior, who catches those twin blades with his own curved sword._

_Madness. Yes, that was the right word. Caranthir had gone mad, heedless of his many wounds, completely berserk. Celegorm cried out to him, but Curufin knew it wouldn't work. Caranthir was too far gone inside his own mind._

Curufinwë knew what came next. He couldn't fight the dream any longer—he was part of the dream, struggling again like he had that day to reach Moryo in time, to knock him away from Dior's blade, to...

"_NO!" Celegorm shouts, and Curufin can't find words, can't find air, can't find meaning—_

_Dior's blade has sliced through Caranthir's armor, through his skin, through his belly, straight through to the other side of his body._

_Caranthir goes still, staring into Dior's gleaming eyes. "Kinslayer," he says through a mouthful of blood, before he falls limp, Dior's blade sliding out of him._

_Fool. A damn fool, that's what he was. Curufin's hot tears blind him as he rushes forward, heedless of who he's killing as he fights his way to his brother's body. Celegorm roars, and he's no singer like Maglor, but the sound sends a wave of force throughout the throne room. Every elf tumbles to the ground—only Curufin, standing in his shadow, keeps his footing. He darts forward, slicing throats, slitting wrists, stealing life from all those around him. He isn't sure if all his own warriors had already fallen, or if he had killed them all too, but by the time he regains control of himself, only he, Celegorm, and Dior are standing._

"_You know," Celegorm growls as he advances on the murderous king, "if you had surrendered and given us the Silmaril, we would have spared you. Even if we'd already started fighting. But now?" He lunges forward, nicking Dior on the arm before his blow is deflected. "Now, I don't care what you do. I'm going to fucking disembowl you."_

"_Oh, yes," Curufin hisses, mirroring his brother as the duel begins in earnest. "You killed our brother. I am going to _enjoy _your suffering, Dior Eluchíl."_

The worst thing, Curufinwë thought in his groggy self-awareness outside of the dream, is that it was absolutely true. He never took pleasure in murder, despite what the stories may have said. He accepted it as part of the Oath they had sworn and didn't waste time obsessing over the guilt—not the way Nelyo did—but he never _liked_ it.

But this time...

_This time, he relishes every second of Dior's pain and fear. He draws it out, longer than he needs to, balancing Celegorm's impatient fury. Dior knows he's losing, but he holds his own against the two most fearsome warriors left living in Beleriand. He must have known this day would come, must have been raised in fear of the Fëanorians._

_Well, good, Curufin thinks as he cuts one of Dior's sleeves off, then the other, grinning as Dior gasps from the pain of the shallow grazes on his arms. He deserves every second of terror, for what he had done to Caranthir._

"_Shall we finish him, brother?" he asks Celegorm._

"_I think we shall," Celegorm growls. He raises his sword for one final, heaving blow—_

_And Dior, faster than Curufin thought anyone could be, twists away from Curufin and drives his blade right into Celegorm's chest._

_Celegorm finishes his movement, thrown off balance by the deadly wound but still managing to slice open Dior's stomach. His guts spill across his body with an acidic stench that rises to Curufin's nostrils, but he barely notices as Celegorm heaves his last breath and falls, glassy-eyed, to the blood-drenched floor._

_Dior tumbles to the ground, groaning horribly, his sword clattering out of his hand. Curufin turns away from him, kneeling beside Celegorm's body, howling his grief. He feels as if half his soul has been torn from him. Celegorm is dead._

_Curufin rises, trembling. He casts aside his own blade and picks up Dior's sword, advancing on his fallen foe._

"_Where is it?" he hisses. "The Silmaril! Where is it?"_

_Dior laughs, an awful, guttural sound. "You'll never get it," he rasps. "Never. Not even—" he coughs, choking on his own blood— "not even if you slaughter everyone in Doriath. You'll never find it."_

_Curufin's rage is controlled, precise. He has honed it over his entire life like he would any other weapon, and even now he does not lose that control._

"_My brother was always true to his word," he says softly, almost conversationally. "He promised to disembowl you." Curufin prods the mass of putrid guts spilling out of Dior's stomach, chuckling. "And he did it. I, however, am a known liar. I said I would enjoy your death. Now I am not so sure. Perhaps I will let you lie here until the rats come to feast upon you. I should let you bleed out, long and slow. You are going to die, you know."_

_Fear flickers in Dior's eyes. Curufin smiles._

"_Yes, I think I'll do that," he says. "Let you go at your own pace. That will delay the inevitable."_

"_You..." Dior rasps, but Curufin cuts him off._

"_Ah ah ah," he tuts. "Talking only makes it worse."_

_He shifts as if to turn around, letting Dior think he's gotten off the hook, that perhaps there may some way his Ainur blood could stitch him back together. He sees Dior relax slightly out of the corner of his eye._

In the small part of himself that was not consumed in the awful dream, Curufinwë braced for the next moment.

_Then he spins back around, shoving Dior's own blade down his throat until he chokes on it, bursting through his esophagus and pinning him to the floor. Dior screams, as much as a dying man with a sword through his throat can scream, and the awful noise causes a thrill of sadistic joy in the pit of Curufin's stomach._

_The scream trails off into a hideous gurgle, and Curufin's shoulders slump. Grief at last overtakes him, and he shakes as sobs rack his body. Caranthir is dead. Celegorm is dead. Dior is dead, also, but the Silmaril is not on his body. Unless the others have discovered it, this horror is all in vain..._

_The others. Maedhros, Maglor, Amrod, Amras. He must tell them what had happened. He must be the one to deliver the heartbreaking news that two of them had fallen. He must—_

Curufinwë sat bolt upright in bed, sweating. His eyes were open, he was fully awake, and yet the vision persisted, along with the pain.

"_Oh," he says softly as he feels cold steel run through his back and watches as a sword slides through his belly. He is dizzy all of a sudden, though his rhaw has gone numb and all sense of pain is dulled._

_Curufin topples backward, falling on the hilt of the sword, the weight of his body pushing the blade deeper into his torso. He looks up, mouth hanging open in surprise, to see a slight and silvery figure hovering above him, her bloodstained hands clasped over her mouth in horror. Nimloth has taken vengeance for her husband._

_He locks eyes with her. He is barely aware of what he whispers in his dying breath, but she hears it, the echo of Caranthir's last accusation:_

"_Kinslayer."_

Curufinwë didn't get any more sleep that night.

* * *

He caught Tyelko by the arm that morning, glaring up at him with bags under his eyes. "We have to talk," he said flatly.

"Dreams again?" Tyelko guessed as Curufinwë led him to a quiet spot beneath a tree. When Curufinwë gave him a curt nod, he said, "Me too. Last night it was Lúthien in Nargothrond."

"Doriath for me," Curufinwë said hoarsely. He grimaced. "The Nargothrond ones aren't so bad. They're just...guilty. Awkward. With Finrod."

"Doriath is..." Tyelko shivered. "Yeah, Doriath is the worst."

"It's just—night after night," Curufinwë said, slamming his fist against the tree trunk. "This wasn't happening until Rissi's party. It wasn't for you, either, was it?"

Tyelko shook his head. "I think it was Finrod. Him forgiving us gave..._someone_ ideas about what we need to do to become properly remorseful."

"Doesn't Irmo know we've suffered enough?" Curufinwë snapped. "Reliving Moryo's death, yours, Dior's, my own—that was every day in Mandos. Now we do it _again_? Is this more punishment?" He smacked the tree again, gaining some small sense of satisfaction as a few leaves fluttered to the ground.

"Boys," called a voice from the house. "Don't knock that tree down, I planted that after you left. It's got sentimental value."

Curufinwë winced. "Sorry, Ammë," he shouted back. "I thought it would be better to punch the tree than to punch Irmo."

Nerdanel poked her head out of the doorway, a fiery eyebrow raised. "What's this about punching Irmo?"

Curufinwë sighed as she strode over, her hands on her hips. Tyelko gave her a casual hug, and she wrapped one arm around him, staring at Curvo.

"Atarinkë, what's got you riled up this time?" Nerdanel asked.

"Dreams," he admitted. "Of...our deaths, mostly. Sometimes other terrible things. Always memories."

"It's been every night," Tyelko said. "Ever since Rissi's party..."

"Ever since Findaráto forgave you two for whatever it was you did to him?" Nerdanel inquired. "I see. Well, you're probably right that it's Irmo. He doesn't always understand what motivates us, but there's _something_ he's trying to get you to do."

"But what?" Tyelko demanded. "Does he want us to march into Avorndor and throw ourselves at the mercy of the Sindar?"

"You could go to Lórien and ask him to alter your memories," Nerdanel suggested mildly.

Curufinwë recoiled at the thought. "Absolutely not," he said firmly. "I did what I did. It may have been awful, but I'm not the kind to shy away from my past."

"Then confront it," Nerdanel said. She slipped out of Tyelko's embrace and wrapped her arms around Curufinwë. "I mean it. Go to Elwë and ask forgiveness. The Sindar hate you, but if you don't want it to stay that way, you must prove you have changed. That you were wrong."

"Do you really think it could work?" Tyelko asked doubtfully.

"You'll never know if you don't try," Nerdanel said. "And they won't actually kill you. Not again. No matter what you did in your past life, they would be to blame for sowing discord if they struck you down."

"You're actually considering this?" Curufinwë demanded of his brother. "Tyelko, come on. You know we had to do what we did. The Oath drove us. And Dior _killed _you, and Moryo too."

"Moryo has nightmares too, you know," Nerdanel said. "He spoke to Míriel of them. But he sought help. He's been gone for months, looking for a solution, and he may be gone many more. Why don't you follow his example?"

"We were in the wrong, Curvo," Tyelko said, not meeting his eyes. "Dior killed us, but we did much worse. He was defending himself. We were fighting for the Oath, but we were also fighting for revenge."

"I am Curufinwë," he said through gritted teeth. "Surely you two know best of all people that a Curufinwë does not admit fault, nor go back on his deeds."

"I know one Curufinwë who does," Nerdanel said. "Your son."

Curufinwë flinched. "Tyelpë...cast that name off, the same day he cast me off. He—he still will not speak to me." Tears came to his eyes unbidden. He wiped them away angrily, furious at the sign of weakness.

"These dreams are a sign of guilt, Atarinkë," Nerdanel said softly. "The Valar judged you penitent enough to return, did they not? Are you telling me they were wrong?"

"No," he said, straightening. "I would not do those things again. But I did them for a reason."

"It was a terrible reason," Tyelko said. "Come on, Curvo."

"Alright," he agreed, and a weight lifted from his shoulders. "We were wrong to attack the Sindar. We were wrong to kidnap Lúthien. We were wrong to send Finrod to his death. We were wrong to do—fucking anything, I suppose." He paused. "But I'm still not apologizing to Angrod."

"What did you do to him?" Nerdanel said with a laugh.

"It was mostly Moryo," Tyelko replied. "But Curvo egged him on. At the Mereth Aderthad..." He launched into the story, and Curvo let him tell it, even slant as Tyelko's recollection was.

That night, they resolved to follow Finrod's advice and seek out Orodreth's forgiveness. Visiting him in Alqualondë, the sight of the First Kinslaying, spooked Curvo more than he thought it would, but much to his surprise Orodreth received them and even invited them to dinner. He dismissed their apologies with surprising warmth, asking instead how they had been since their rebirth.

The tension was evident, but it relaxed as the evening went on. Orodreth, ever non-confrontational, seemed to genuinely forgive them. His wife Amathluin followed his lead with only marginal hesitation, and his son Gil-galad clearly thought he was above such petty grievances.

Orodreth's daughter Finduilas was too happy about her child on the way to darken the mood. She and her husband Gwindor were inseparable, and watching them in all their joy stung Curufinwë's heart. He was reminded of his own wife and her pregnancy, how he and Quilla had snuggled up together in bed and talked about all the wonderful things their son would be. Tyelpë had exceeded their expectations, but Curvo...he had failed.

Emboldened by their reconciliation with the people they had wronged in Nargothrond, Tyelko convinced Curufinwë to accompany him to Avorndor.

"If we do this, we must bring a peace offering," Curufinwë warned. "Something truly great."

"They would accept a Silmaril," Tyelko joked, but it ended in a grimace. They may have been freed from their Oath, but some things were too dark to make light of, even if that darkness was borne of pure light itself.

"We wouldn't give that up even if we had it," Curufinwë said. "But the Nauglamír..."

"Doesn't Elwing still have it?" Tyelko wondered.

"I don't know," he said. "I've never met her."

"She does not," said Nelyo, who was reading a book across the room. "Fingon tells me it was disassembled when Eärendil took the Silmaril. Varda cast the jewels into the sky, or so the story goes."

Curufinwë cracked his knuckles. "Alright then!" he proclaimed. "I will recreate it, as best I can. Do you think Finrod would be willing to help us?"

"If you're still trying to make amends with the Sindar, I'm sure he would be happy to," Nelyo said, still not looking up from his book. "This was all his idea in the first place."

In the end, the necklace took over a year to perfect, but as long he worked on it Curufinwë did not suffer from nightmares. His dreams were still fitful, still uncomfortable, but they were not so chilling or vivid.

This second Nauglamír was not the same as the original, but it was still beautiful, and even Finrod swore it was equal in its glory to the first.

"Do you think I could wear it, just for a bit?" Finrod asked hesitantly. "I know it is not for me, but... it was my favorite. You remember."

Curufinwë did remember. He remembered more than just that from their time in Nargothrond, but he did not mention that. He draped it around Finrod's neck, and the golden prince sighed.

"I don't know how you did it, but if anything it is lighter than before," he said, admiring himself in the mirror. He stroked the jewels, casting a flirty look to Curufinwë. "Do you want to see if it's still as strong?"

Curufinwë went red. Apparently Finrod was not so shy about bringing up what they used to do with the Nauglamír in bed.

"I don't think Turukáno would like that," he said, though he was more tempted by the offer than he wanted to admit.

Finrod sighed, sliding the necklace off his shoulders. "You're right," he agreed. "But it _was_ fun, wasn't it?"

* * *

The kingdom of Avorndor was founded in the middle of the Third Age, shortly after the re-embodiment of Elu Thingol. After reuniting with his wife Melian, he and his brother Olwë had gotten into an argument about the leadership of the Teleri. After turning to the Valar to settle the disagreement, Manwë decreed that while Olwë yet led the Falmari, Thingol would have claim over the Sindar who were reborn or sailed west. Content with ruling a lesser kingdom, Thingol retreated outside the older cities of Eldamar and founded a new land in the forests of Aman.

Once upon a time, this had been one of Tyelko's favorite hunting grounds. Now, inhabited by the Sindar, he dared not tread there again. That was, not until he and Curufinwë traveled to Avorndor to offer a gift of peace to Thingol himself.

They sent a messenger ahead of them, not wishing to surprise the Sindar into violence. Even as it was, they were bound as they were brought before the king. The throne room of Thingol's second Menegroth was chock full of suspicious Sindar, glaring down at the Kinslayers who had so wronged them.

"Curufin and Celegorm," Thingol began from his place upon the throne. "I must admit it pleases me to see you kneel before me. What would your proud father think, if he could see you now?"

Frustration bubbled in Curufinwë's stomach, but he held his tongue. He deserved that jibe, he knew. When Tyelko's eyes flashed as if he were about to retort, Curvo kicked him.

"Your message said you came with words of apology, and also a gift," Thingol continued. "Well, speak it, and then show your prize. I will judge if it is worthy. I have not forgotten your role in my daughter's death, nor the great harm you did to my grandson and our people."

Curufinwë raised his head, beholding the watching crowd. He saw many faces he recognized: Nimloth, Dior, Mablung, Beleg. But the majority of the Sindar were unfamiliar, though hardness lined the faces of each. He even caught a glimpse of Daeron, hiding the shadows. Daeron, Lúthien's brother...Maglor's husband.

Curufinwë took a deep breath. They had rehearsed this speech several times. Tyelko knew when it was his turn to chime in, and when to stay silent.

"Your Majesty," he began, "on behalf of myself and my brother Tyelkormo—"

"Nay, all our brothers," Tyelko interrupted. Curufinwë nodded, glad he remembered his lines.

"On behalf of all the line of Fëanáro," he continued, "we humbly offer our sincerest apologies and beg your forgiveness. What we wrought upon Doriath was wrong. What we did in kidnapping Lúthien was wrong. We were driven by an Oath, but the Oath did not specify the methods in which to fulfill it. We know this, now, and we have no further excuse."

"As gratifying as it is to see you grovel," Thingol drawled, "I will require more than words to forgive such grievances."

"Our hearts are heavy," Curufinwë said. "We have been—haunted by dreams. I have relived the moments of our evils again, and again, and again. The Valar judged us penitent, and even still I feel the weight of my deeds."

"We were foolish to think we could bend Lúthien to our will," Tyelko added. "And more so to underestimate Dior." He inclined his head to the man who had slain him, and Dior's nostrils flared.

"To prove our words, I have labored in the forges for the past year," Curufinwë proclaimed. He lifted his bound hands and indicated the box before him. "If one would be so kind as to release me, I shall reveal our gift to you."

Thingol nodded, and Beleg came forward to cut his bonds. Rubbing his sore wrists, Curufinwë opened the box and pulled out the glorious necklace.

A gasp ran through the crowd. "The Nauglamír!" someone whispered, and the cry was taken up from mouth to mouth, until all the Sindar spoke the name reverently.

"Quiet!" Thingol commanded. "What is this? The Nauglamír was broken, by Elbereth herself!"

"This is a recreation, for you, your Majesty," Curufinwë said. He strode forward, offering the necklace to the king. "Finrod aided me in its reconstruction. This was but one thing which my brothers and I took from you. We cannot give you a Silmaril, nor, I admit, would we relinquish one if we could, but we can give you this."

Thingol reached forward, accepting the gift with hands that trembled. He looked up at his wife, and Melian smiled. She took the necklace and draped it around her husband's shoulders, and the crowd murmured with appreciation.

It was truly beautiful, and Curufinwë had to admit to himself that it stung to give up such a marvellous creation. But the glittering lights reflecting off Melian's aura and the glow of Thingol's eyes lit up the throne even more than it did already, and he could tell that the king was pleased.

"This is a kingly gift," Thingol said, his voice warmer than before. "I accept your offering, and I do not deny your apology. We will never be friends, Fëanorians, but if it is peace with us and yourselves that you wish, you may have it. May Irmo punish you no more. Go in peace from Avorndor—though I do not beg you return anytime soon, if ever."

"Wait," said a cold voice. Curufinwë and Tyelko exchanged a dark glance. Neither of them could forget that voice: Dior Eluchíl.

"Yes, heir of mine?" Thingol said, turning to his grandson. "Do you dispute my wisdom?"

"No," Dior said, stepping forward. "But...I have one question for these men."

"Then speak it."

Dior clutched his wife's hand. "I speak for Nimloth and I both," he said. "Where are our sons? Why did you abandon them to die?"

Tyelko flinched, and Curufinwë bowed his head. He had not expected this.

"We were dead, by then," Tyelko said, a hint of resentment in his voice. Curvo laid a hand on his shoulder, trying to maintain control of the situation.

"Your Highness, my brother speaks the truth," Curufinwë said. "You ought to know this, as it was you who slew Tyelkormo, and Nimloth who slew myself."

Dior growled. "If we had not—"

"I do not blame you!" Curufinwë cried, interrupting him. "No, that is not why I bring it up. But we did no such thing. The rumors say it was Tyelkormo's servants who cast them aside, but I knew those men. Even in grief for their lord they would do no such thing."

"Our brother searched for them," Tyelko said, struggling to keep his cool. "He didn't find them. We're—we're sorry they were lost. But this, at least, is not our fault."

Nimloth buried her face in Dior's shoulder, and he led her away. Curufinwë looked around, noting that Daeron had disappeared from his hiding place.

"Go," Thingol ordered. "And unless you can answer my grandson's question, do not return again."

* * *

"I can't believe you actually did it," Nelyo said, impressed. "Curvo admitted he was wrong! And Tyelko managed not to shout at either Dior _or_ Thingol! It truly is a miracle."

Curufinwë rolled his eyes. "We did this on our own, dear brother. Don't credit the Valar."

"I would credit Irmo for spurring you to action," Nerdanel teased. "But I am proud of you boys. When I heard all you did in Doriath..." A shadow passed across her face. "I could not speak to Eärwen for weeks, I was so ashamed. But you have grown, and time mends all wounds."

"And if it doesn't, rebirth will," Telvo joked. "I still get a shock every time I look into the mirror and don't see scars. I bet Nelyo does too."

"I've been thinking about that, actually," Nelyo said slowly. "I don't feel...it's odd, but I don't feel complete without my wounds. They were a part of me. And I'm not saying I want Finno to cut off my hand again, but..." He clenched and unclenched the fist in question, staring at it thoughtfully. "Did you know that the Silvan have a practice of painting over scars in gold? I spoke to a red-haired maid from the east who sailed west recently. She was covered in gold paint, especially over her heart. She said it broke once, long ago, and that she did this to honor her loss, even though she no longer grieves as she once did."

"I don't know, I like being pretty again," Tyelko said, tossing his silver hair. "But then, I've picked up a few scrapes and scars just from hunting."

"Well, if you see me wearing gold, that would be why," Nelyo murmured.

"There's one thing that still bothers me," Curufinwë said. "You all were there after the battle in Doriath. I don't want to speak of evil things, but... What _did_ happen with Dior's twins? The story doesn't make sense."

"My warriors would never abandon children like that," Tyelko agreed with a scowl.

Nelyo winced. "I don't know," he admitted. "Someone told me it was one of your servants, Tyelko, and to be honest I just believed them." He tapped his knee. "I can't even remember who said that..."

There was a polite cough across the room. Pityo crossed his arms and admitted, "Um, that was me."

"You who told Nelyo, or who abandoned them?" Curvo asked sharply.

Pityo bit his lip and was silent for a long time. Everyone stared at him, horrified to think that Pityafinwë could do such a thing—but when at last Pityo spoke, he was talking mostly to himself.

"It's been so long," he muttered. "I swore never to tell, but I haven't seen her in so long. She's...not here. She probably never will be. She..." He shook his head. "No, it's time. That doesn't matter anymore."

"What are you talking about?" Telvo asked, frightened. "You kept something about this, even from me?"

Pityo looked up, his eyes brimming with tears. "I told you all that Thennes died at Doriath," he said. "Do you remember?"

This was news to Curufinwë, but then, he had not been around to hear it. Thennes was Pityo's wife, a Sinda woman originally one of Thingol's marchwarden, but who had fallen for the handsome Amras and joined the Fëanorians. The Second Kinslaying, where her husband slaughtered her own kin, must have been terribly hard for her.

"Well, she didn't," Pityo admitted at last. "She couldn't bear to be married to me after I slaughtered her kin. I don't blame her for that. But when she left me, she didn't go alone."

Curufinwë's jaw dropped. "You mean..."

"She took the boys," Pityo said. "She took Eluréd and Elurín, and they went east. She made me promise I would tell everyone they all had died, or been lost in the forest. She thought it would be safer that way."

"So they're still...alive?" Tyelko wondered.

"And you _never told me_?" Nelyo demanded. "Amras! You know how much that haunted me!"

"I was about to," Pityo protested. "Truly, I was! When I learned that Elwing had twins...but I didn't want to distract you before the battle, and then I died. And if the tales are true, at least you took in Elrond and Elros."

"That was Maglor," Nelyo whispered through numb lips. "Pityo...I need some time to think about this." He rose, and left the room without so much as a goodnight.

Curufinwë leapt to his feet also. "Tyelko, we have to go back," he urged. "Right now."

"It's the middle of the night!" Tyelko protested. "And Curvo, Thingol told us never to return!"

"He said never to return unless we could tell him and Dior what happened to the boys," Curufinwë pointed out. "And now we can. Let us not waste a moment!"

"I'm going with you," Pityo said. He glanced to his own twin. "Amrod?"

Telvo shook his head. "I'm with Maedhros on this one," he said. "I need...time to think."

"Go quickly," Nerdanel urged. "I am missing only one son, now, and my pain is unspeakable. I feel for Nimloth—do not keep their mother waiting one moment longer."

The journey to Avorndor took at least a half-day, and it was sunrise by the time Tyelko, Curvo, and Pityo arrived at the forest's borders. Once again they were bound and dragged before the king, with considerably more vitriol than before.

"I told you not to return!" Thingol cried. "And yet you trespass upon my lands only a day later?"

"We must see Nimloth and Dior," Curufinwë said, struggling against his bonds. "We have news—news of their sons!"

Thingol went still. "Take them to my meeting room," he ordered his servants. "And someone fetch Dior and Nimloth!"

When at last the parents arrived, Curufinwë was so frightened by Dior's fury that he thought he was in serious danger of being killed a second time.

"Dior, let us speak," he begged. "I promise, I—"

"Curufin?" Nimloth said hesitantly. Surprised that it was she who spoke, he fell silent. "I—I just wanted to say...before you tell us anything...I wanted to say I'm sorry for—for killing you."

Curvo stared at her, trying to process what she meant for a full minute at least. "I...what?" he said, completely caught off guard.

"I'm sorry for killing you," Nimloth repeated, wringing her hands. "It has always haunted me. You—you called me a Kinslayer. It was your last word. And Dior, he always told me that I shouldn't care what you thought of me, but you were _right_. I'm a Kinslayer, too."

Curufinwë didn't know what to say. "I..." He scratched his head. "Nimloth, there's nothing to be sorry for. You did nothing wrong. I made you a Kinslayer, but it was the right choice for you. After what I did? Killing your husband, making your home a place of slaughter? I deserved far worse than such a clean death."

Tears budded in Nimloth's eyes. "Thank you," she whispered. "You don't know what that means to me."

"That isn't why we came back," Tyelko rumbled. "Yesterday, you asked us why we abandoned your sons. We said we didn't know what happened, because we didn't. But we mentioned it to our brothers, and, well, Ambarussa has something to say."

Pityo took a deep breath. "Your sons are not dead," he informed them.

Nimloth let out a gasp that bordered on a shriek, and Dior nearly fainted. Thingol gripped him to hold him upright, but even he was pale in shock.

"I was sworn to secrecy by their savior," Pityo explained. "My wife, Thennes—she was of your people. After the Kinslaying, she...she rescued your boys and fled with them to safety." He launched into the mournful tale, explaining everything he knew, and Curvo leaned into Tyelko for support as he watched the weeping family drink in Pityo's words.

"I...I want to believe you," Dior said at last. "I don't know why you would lie. But the word of Kinslayer is not something I can trust."

Pityo leaned forward, grasping his hand. "Then trust this," he said. "I am a twin, also. I swear by the bond I share with Amrod: your sons live."

That was enough for them. Dior and Nimloth personally escorted the three brothers to the edge of the land of Avorndor, bidding them farewell and thanking them for this news. Curufinwë left feeling drained, and yet better than he'd felt in years.

And that night, for the first time since Írissë's party, his sleep held no dreams at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line "Curufin isn't just tattered, he's shredded into pieces" was influenced by a line from the book Terrier by Tamora Pierce: "Crookshank isn't cracked, he's smashed all to pieces." I love TP's works, and if you enjoy fantasy I would definitely recommend them! Terrier was written more recently, but it's a decent place to start if you're curious :)
> 
> I had a ridiculous amount of fun writing this dream sequence - I've had a very specific idea of how the Second Kinslaying went down for awhile (ever since I wrote [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069029) for Back to Middle-earth Month) and it was a delight to finally get to write this. The gore was fun, too...I'm a sucker for action scenes. And, as I mentioned in the fic linked earlier, I headcanon that Maedhros was the one who killed Nimloth after she killed Curufin.
> 
> "Avorndor" means "enduring land" in Sindarin; "Thennes" means "gray one" in Sindarin.  
Thennes' story was exciting to develop! I think she and Amras fell in love only in versions of the Legendarium where Amrod survives Losgar (creating a certain amount of tension between the twins); in versions where Amrod dies, I don't think Amras is in any state to be in relationship...though maybe Thennes could help him out.  
I also have another version of Thennes' life, where she died in the Dagor Bragollach...this will actually tie in with [Unanticipated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18197246/chapters/43045235) if I ever get to finishing that fic. But this version, where she rescued Dior's twins, really excited me! When I had the epiphany about how I could tie together Amras' wife with the twins' fate, I had a literal "eureka!" moment where I sat up and started telling my roommate about it...not that she knows anything about the Silm or my obscure headcanons, lol.
> 
> I can't remember where I was first introduced to the idea, but I've always loved the headcanon that a reborn Maedhros practiced something akin to [kintsugi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kintsugi) to honor the scars and damage he endured in his first life; I made a subtle nod to the concept in [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18253679), which could very well take place in the same universe as this fic (if far in the future). ETA: I have officially made that fic part of this verse, though it can also stand on its own :)  
***ETA 9/8/19*** I'm not sure if this is the /first/ occurrence of this headcanon or my first introduction to it, but I did find [this piece of art](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/183817984152/theangbangmuseum-day-one-of-feanorianweek-its)!!! Check it out!!  
***ETA 12/7/19*** Found [another piece of art](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/183744945272/factorialrabbits-maedhros-and-beauty-reborn) that talks about it in the same context as this fic, as a means of post-rebirth reclamation of his past! For more kintsugi!Mae, check out [this tag](https://arofili.tumblr.com/tagged/kintsugi%21maedhros) :)  
The Silvan elf who introduces him to the idea in this story is, naturally, Tauriel from the Hobbit movies! I love her and couldn't resist a subtle reference to her here :) Her golden heart is, of course, in honor of Kíli. I usually prefer versions of her story where she remains in Middle-earth until the end of Arda, but versions where she eventually sails are good too.  
(For more Silm-influenced Tauriel fic, check out [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5906779) where she meets Maglor, [this one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4873315) set after the reforging of Arda, and [this one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402599) where she visits Cuiviénen.)
> 
> re: Amras' line "I swear by the bond I share with Amrod": I definitely stole this line from The Princess Bride, when Inigo says "I swear by the name of my father Domingo Montoya, you will reach the top alive." Gosh, I love that movie so much! (I have a LOTR Princess Bride AU planned out, maybe one day I'll write it...)
> 
> [I posted this fic all at once, but rest assured I would be happy to receive comments on more than just the final chapter. Thanks for reading and commenting!]


	5. Amras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amras makes new connections and severs some old ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ambarussa's chapters will be a little more lighthearted than some of the previous ones, partially because I've lumped them in with their brothers for the angstier stuff, but also just because I think their drama is a little more dramatic and a little less heavy!

Amras had tried to forget his past hurts. In the years since his rebirth, he and Amrod had buried any strife that once lay between them, and together they had picked up right where they left off before their journey to Middle-earth.

As the youngest, their mother still coddled them, forgiving their many wrongs with an ease not afforded to their older brothers. And when they were not being smothered in a mother's love or out hunting, sometimes with Tyelko and sometimes on their own, Amrod and Amras spent time in Tirion with friends old and new.

It had been uncomfortable, at first, to return to the place they had abandoned, but they were still the same cheeky and cheerful boys they had always been. Sometimes, Amras could forget he had ever left.

But not recently. Not since his visit to Avorndor.

Amras did his best not to dwell on Thennes. She had been a pillar in his life, almost as important as Amrod, but then...she had left. He had grieved her like she died—had let everyone else think that was, indeed, her fate—and moved on as best he could. He knew and understood why she had left him, was honestly surprised she had accompanied them to Doriath at all.

So like his deeds at the Kinslayings, like the rift that had formed between him and Amrod, Amras put Thennes behind him. But now that she had been dragged out, back into conversation, his wounded heart bled again.

Maedhros forgave him for keeping his secret, but it took time. He went to visit Moryo on Tol Eressëa while he came to terms with the truth of Eluréd and Elurín's fate. Tyelko and Curvo had not been there when it happened—indeed, his grief over losing three of his brothers had consumed him as much as Thennes' departure had. They were grateful he had given them the final key to their redemption in the eyes of the Sindar, but to Amras, it felt as if he had simply replaced them in the seat of judgement.

The worst part was Amrod's reaction. He, too, felt betrayed by Amras' deception. He tried not to display it openly, but Amras knew his twin better than he knew himself, sometimes. He could tell.

It didn't help that the quarrel between them had started with Thennes. Amrod was jealous of his brother's love, mean to her and harsh with Amras. They had worked things out, eventually, but it was a soreness that never quite went away. Now the old bitterness was reawakened, and Amras did not even have his closest companion to comfort him in this trying time.

When Amrod refused to help, Amras searched elsewhere. He asked for her kin among the Sindar, and the few who deigned to speak with a Kinslayer knew even less of her whereabouts than he did.

"So she's not in Aman," he told his mother. He bowed his head. "Which means she's either in the Halls, or still in Endórë."

Nerdanel held his hand, smiling at him with sympathy. "I am sorry I never met her," she murmured. "From what you say, she was a great woman."

Amras blinked away tears. "She was," he agreed. "Better than me. She didn't stand by as we did awful things. She acted."

"You did what you did," Nerdanel said. She did not like to speak of the Kinslayings, for all she had forgiven them for their murders. "And she loved you enough to tell you why she had to go."

"I don't know why I'm searching for her," Amras admitted. "She's free, and has been for millenia...she probably never thinks about me."

"Love never dies completely." Nerdanel looked away, the red hair she had passed to him falling in her face. "Valar know I still love your father, despite everything."

Amras heard nothing of his long-vanished wife until Maedhros received a visitor: Maglor's foster son, Elrond.

Elrond had lived in Middle-earth for several ages, not sailing until the fall of Sauron. Amras leaned on the doorway, listening to his conversation with Maedhros, absently wondering if Thennes had ever visited his haven of Imladris.

He must have wondered aloud, for both Maedhros and Elrond turned to look at him oddly. "What was that?" Elrond asked.

Maedhros beckoned him in. "Amras, have you met Elrond?"

"I don't believe so," he said, shaking Elrond's hand. "Hello. I've heard a lot about you."

"And I you," Elrond said with a smile that reached his soft brown eyes. "My father always spoke of you and Amrod as children, as if that meant he knew how to raise my twin and I."

Amras grimaced, both at the reminder of Amrod's cold shoulder and of Maglor's absence. "I assume he did not," he guessed.

"We did our best," Maedhros protested. "Well. _Maglor_ did. I wasn't really in a state to...parent." A shadow passed across his face, so strangely smooth and fair, but it was soon replaced by curiosity. "What were you saying about Thennes, Amras?"

"Oh, yes." Amras tugged on his braid, not meeting his eyes. "Elrond, I...my wife, Thennes. She fled eastward after...near the end of the First Age. We broke our marriage, then, and our bond has faded, but...I care for her still. Tell me, did you ever meet her in Middle-earth?"

Elrond frowned, leaning backward thoughtfully. "I don't know," he admitted, his eyes darkening to black as he thought. "Thennes, you said she was called? I've met a few women by that name."

"She had brown hair, and dark eyes," Amras elaborated. "She had a scar on her right arm from when a spear grazed her in the Bragollach. She would have had two boys traveling with her, twins with silver hair and..." He trailed off, suddenly realizing that Elrond's mother was Elwing, sister of the lost boys.

"And?" Elrond prompted. His eyes flashed amber, and Amras stared as if he beheld a ghost.

"And—a Maia's ever-changing eyes," he said softly. "They were...have you been to Avorndor recently? Or spoken to Dior?"

Elrond blinked. "No," he said, "but what..." His eyes widened, the amber within them shifting back to brown. With him, several generations removed from Lúthien, the changes were not as obvious, but they were there.

"Thennes rescued Dior's sons," Maedhros said quietly. "They yet live, as far as we know. She took them far away, to where no Fëanorian could lay a hand on them." He grimaced. "It is unfortunate that she could not do the same for you and Elros."

"Don't say that," Elrond chided, but he didn't put his heart into it. Amras thought they had probably argued this point many times before. "Eluréd and Elurín live? And it was this Thennes who cared for them?" He chuckled. "My, my. History repeats itself, and we are unaware!"

"I take it you did not meet them, then," Amras guessed.

"If I did, it was under different names," Elrond admitted. "Thennes..." He tapped his chin. "Yes, I think maybe she did come to Imladris with them. They were adults by that point, and I thought they looked familiar. But if they knew they were my uncles, they said nothing."

"I don't know if she raised them to know who they were," Amras murmured. "It may have been safer to leave everything behind."

"They weren't alone," Elrond added. "There was..." He stopped, looking to Amras with sympathy. "There was another man with them. He and Thennes had matching rings."

For some reason, even knowing that she had viewed their marriage null and void from the moment they returned each other their rings, learning that Thennes had found another husband gutted Amras. She was his one and only love—unlike his brothers, he had remained ever faithful to his wife. Even Maedhros had his lapses from Fingon, to say nothing of Curufin's adultery to Quilla. But Amras never faltered, and this final confirmation that she had utterly renounced him hurt more than he expected.

"I am sorry, Amras," Elrond said. Maedhros slung an arm around his shoulder, and Amras wept into his eldest brother's embrace.

"If she can find someone new, perhaps you can also," Elrond suggested. Amras looked at him miserably, telling him without words that doing so was impossible.

"It's alright, Pityo," Maedhros murmured. "We're here for you. All your brothers are, and Ammë too."

But all his brothers were _not_ there for him. When Amrod saw him weeping in the room they still shared despite everything, he dropped his bow and rushed over, but as soon as he learned the cause of Amras' sorrow he sighed and rolled his eyes.

"This again?" he demanded. "Amras, we knew this would happen. You returned your rings. She was unbound from you! She has every right to find someone new—"

"I _know_," Amras snapped, shoving his twin away. "Of course I know that! But I had hoped, somehow, that she would hold on to her love, find me again someday..."

"She's not coming here," Amrod said, speaking the truth Amras had tried so long to deny. "She has no kin here, and unless she dies and is reborn... The ships have all sailed, Amras. Any elves left in Middle-earth are there to stay, until they fade away and men forget them."

Amras stood up abruptly. Grabbing his own bow and slinging a pack over his back, he said, "Tell Ammë I'm going hunting."

"Right now?" Amrod exclaimed. "But I just got back!"

"I'm not going with _you_," Amras growled. "You were happy when you thought she was dead. You always hated her!"

"I did not hate her!" Amrod argued. "I admit, I was jealous, but I grieved for her alongside you! She was part of you, as much as I—"

"Sometimes I'm not so sure about that," Amras snarled. Amrod flinched, and he immediately regretted his cruelty. It hurt his fëa to even consider a life without his twin. That close call at Losgar still gave him nightmares, fears that wouldn't abate until he crawled into bed with Amrod despite them both being far too big for such things.

With those ugly words ringing in the air, Amras whipped around and fled. He ran through the countryside, past the woods of Avorndor, plunging into a deep forest at the edge of Thingol's territory.

He spent a week there, alone, losing himself in the hunt. He tracked a bear to its den and while he failed to slay it, the chase gave him a burst of joy and energy he had sorely needed.

Thennes had been a hunter, too. She was a marchwarden of Doriath who caught him and Amrod trying to sneak past Melian's girdle. She had charmed him then, and Amras came back again and again just to see her. Amrod tired of the game, letting his brother wander, but when Thennes chose to marry Amras shortly after the Dagor Aglareb, Amrod had been furious.

They had mended their relationship in time, and Amrod had even grown to like Thennes—or so Amras had thought. Now, he was not so sure. Amrod had never felt an attraction to another person, and didn't understand the love Amras held for his wife. He was insensitive, jealous, worried that Amras would choose her over his own twin.

That never worried Amras. He had enough love in his heart for a wife and a twin and five other brothers aside. Thennes was not a replacement for Amrod—and Amrod could not fill the empty place that Thennes had left in her absence.

Why didn't he _get_ it? His rage rekindling, Amras stormed through through the forest, shooting arrows with abandon. He killed several birds, a few foxes, a hare. He took each of them with him, though he wasn't much hungry. Still, he wouldn't waste life, or food. Someone would appreciate the meat.

"Amras?" called a voice as he crossed a stream one afternoon. Surprised, Amras lost his footing and tumbled off the slippery rocks and into the water, spluttering.

A hand reached out to pull him out, its owner laughing. As he pushed his sopping hair out of his eyes, Amras beheld a vaguely familiar face.

"Do I know you?" he asked.

The elf laughed, a smile that reached his eyes splitting his face. "No, I don't think so," he said. "But you have met my father!"

"Amras, what a surprise to see you here!" said Elrond, striding forward. "I see you've met my son Elladan. You know, he's a twin, also—apparently it runs in the family. But where is Elrohir?" he asked, turning to Elladan. He glanced back to Amras. "And Amrod, also?"

Amras scowled. "I don't know where my brother is," he said shortly.

"Don't tell me you're quarreling," Elladan said in dismay. "I know we've only just met, but even I can see it's making you miserable. One should never fight with one's twin."

"Elros and I fought all the time," Elrond said with a soft laugh. "But never over anything serious. What have you two done?"

Just then, a man with the same features as Elladan raced out of the trees, holding a dead hare proudly. "Ada, look! Our traps snared—" He broke off, looking curiously at Amras. "Who's this?"

Introductions were made, and Amras was invited to join Elrond's family on their hunt. He accepted, happy to be included, and quickly befriended the younger twins.

After another week of adventure, Amras lay awake at night listening to Elladan and Elrohir swap tales of old hunts, eventually drifting off to sleep. He stared up into the clear night sky, missing Amrod. He had been too harsh, he knew. Amrod loved him, he just couldn't relate to Amras' pain. And how could he turn his back on his own twin? Seeing Elrond's sons so happy together hurt in the absence of his brother.

"You should go back," Elrond murmured.

Amras jumped, sitting upright. "I didn't know you were awake!" he hissed.

Elrond laughed quietly, sitting up as well. "I mean it," he whispered. "I can tell you miss Amrod. If I could see my brother again..." He sighed, and Amras felt horribly guilty. Here he was, with a twin alive and eternal, moping about because they weren't exactly the same! Elrond had lost his twin in a far more permanent way.

"You're right," he admitted. "I'll head home in the morning..."

At dawn he bid his farewell to Elladan and Elrohir, turning back the way he came, resolving to apologize to Amrod. He had not traveled for an hour, though, before he saw a familiar red-haired figure in the distance.

His heart leapt. "Amrod?" he called.

The figure whipped around, letting loose an arrow. Amras ducked, crying out, "Hey! It's me!"

"Sorry!" Amrod exclaimed, rushing forward. "Amras, it's so good to see you, you don't even know—"

Amras crushed his brother in a tight embrace. "Of course I know," he whispered. "I'm half of you."

"You mean it?" Amrod asked, leaning back and looking into his twin's eyes. "Even after how awful I was?"

"I'm the awful one," Amras protested. "Of course I mean it. Whatever comes between us, nothing is strong enough to tear us apart. We were born together, we died together, we were reborn together. And just because my wife means something to me, doesn't mean I've ever forgotten you."

It was an echo of the conversation they'd had the night before his wedding. Amrod smiled, tears brimming in his eyes, and gave him another hug.

"Guess who I met out here," Amras said.

"Who?"

He launched into the tale of meeting Elrond and his sons, all the while wandering back the way he'd come. Before long the hunting parties were reunited, and Amras gladly introduced his twin to the others.

They spent a few more weeks in the woods, carefree and happy. Amrod and Amras befriended Elladan and Elrohir easily, and for all Elrond had been raised by their brother he acted more like an uncle than a nephew, teasing them and telling embarrassing stories about his sons' childhoods.

Amras was fond of Elladan in particular, and not just because it had been he who pulled him out of the river. Elrohir was more reserved, his humor dry and sarcastic, while Elladan laughed loud and often at jokes both crude and sophisticated. He told all kinds of wild stories of hunts in Middle-earth, sexual escapades too ridiculous to be true, and even parties so wild Amras wished he had been there. Some of the stories, Amras actually believed, though Amrod was more suspicious.

The twins were identical, much like he and Amrod, but they were not the same person. Elladan smiled like his father, and Elrond said Elrohir got his singing voice from their mother Celebrían. Elladan couldn't sing at all, though his boisterous attempts made Amras's stomach hurt from laughter.

By the time they said goodbye and went their separate ways, Amras confessed to his brother that he may have developed something of an infatuation with their new friend.

Amrod looked at him, scandalized. "Pityo!" he groaned. "Weren't you _just_ grieving Thennes?"

"I don't mean I want to _marry_ him," Amras scoffed. "Just that he's cute. And..." He chewed his lip. "I don't know. If Thennes can move on, maybe I can too."

"That's what I've been saying all along," Amrod grumbled.

"Do you think I should start dating again?" Amras wondered.

"That is _not_ what I meant!" Amrod protested. "Ask Curvo—_he's_ still not over Quilla, so he'll be a great sounding board."

"That's different," he dismissed. "Quilla is _here_, in Tirion. They've still got a chance." He stretched his arms, grinning. "You know, I never thought I'd be here, but I'm actually excited."

"Please just remember what you promised," Amrod said tiredly.

"Of course you're a priority to me!" Amras exclaimed, ruffling his twin's hair. "But you're no lover, Telvo." He laughed. "Someone should tell the shopkeepers in Tirion—I'm back on the market!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of the Ambarrusa befriending Elrond's twins is just way too sweet for me not to jump at! I hope you enjoy them as much as I do :)
> 
> [I posted this fic all at once, but rest assured I would be happy to receive comments on more than just the final chapter. Thanks for reading and commenting!]


	6. Amrod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amrod runs into an old...well, "friend" isn't quite the right word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features a minor character I've had an odd history with, Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch! For Back to Middle-earth Month, I wrote a [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18080195) that featured him in a relationship with Tyelko, but things are much different here! Still, if you want an idea of how I picture his character, definitely check that fic out. But the long and short of it is that he's very, very gay and I love him.

"Telufinwë? Is that you?"

Amrod stopped in his path, trying to place where he knew that voice before he turned around. It was someone who knew him by his Quenya ataressë, not the nickname derived from it, not one of his Sindarin names, not his amilessë, nor the name he shared with his twin... That narrowed the list considerably, to someone who knew him better than they knew Amras, and someone who had known him in Aman.

After a moment of frantic thought, he decided it was safe to face the person who had called out to him. If they knew him from before the Flight of the Noldor, it was probably not someone he had wronged in Middle-earth.

But the moment he saw the man's face, he had second thoughts.

"Aikamblotsë?" he said with a strangled voice.

"Telufinwë, it _is_ you!" Aikamblotsë smiled, then grimaced. "Ai...yes, I can see how awkward this is."

_Awkward!_ Amrod thought. _That's quite the understatement!_ "Considering the last time I saw you, it was moments before you decapitated me with that wickedly curved sword of yours...yes."

Aikamblotsë winced. "Sorry about that?" he offered. "In my defense, you certainly would have killed me if I hadn't taken care of you. And your brother wreaked vengeance upon me almost immediately afterward."

"You don't seem..._too_ upset," Amrod said warily.

"I still remember you from before," Aikamblotsë said. "When we were boys, trying to figure out who we were..." He sighed, and Amrod remembered, too: sunny days they fooled around in a field, skipping lessons and pelting their older brothers with apples. It had taken too long for Amrod to realize that he felt only friendship for his friend, not the sticky-sweet love Aika wanted from him, but those memories were good and golden nonetheless.

Aika looked around the busy street, noticing that they were taking up a considerable amount of space and drawing irritated stares. "Would you like to grab a drink?" he offered. "I'll pay. I owe you."

Amrod blinked. "Sure, why not?" he said, laughing a little at the absurdity of the situation. "Let's get a drink with my former lover, who is also my murderer. Water under the bridge, as the Teleri say!"

"I'd hoped you might see it that way," Aika said, grinning in relief. "Come on, I know a spot."

The spot was a little streetside shop that sold hard cider, and Aika ordered for them both. "This is my favorite," he said, passing a lime green drink to Amrod. "Try, Telvo, you'll like it."

"Telvo now, is it?" he said, sipping at it. "Mm. You're right, this is good."

"We were friends, once," Aika said. "Would you rather me not use that nickname?"

"Only my family calls me Telvo now," he murmured. "I go by Amrod, most days."

"I use my Sindarin name, too," Aika admitted. "Tuilindo calls me Aika, but for everyone else I prefer Egalmoth."

"Tuilindo?" Amrod frowned. "I don't remember him."

"We were both lords of Gondolin," Egalmoth explained. "I was closer with your family, until things went sour between us..." He coughed politely. "Then I befriended Írissë and Arakáno. Of course I followed Rissi to Gondolin, especially when Turukáno offered me a lordship. Tuilindo and I fell in love there. We were happy, until..." He sighed.

"The Fall?" Amrod guessed, his voice soft.

"Of course," Egalmoth said. "I escaped. He didn't. The survivors made it to the Havens, and, well, you know what happened next."

Amrod winced. He did know.

"But like you said—water under the bridge." Egalmoth waved his hand. "Tuilindo and I have been out of Mandos since the Second Age, even though I was a Kinslayer." He paused. "I am truly sorry about that, Tel...Amrod. You cannot know how sorry—well, maybe you can."

Amrod nodded, meeting his eyes solemnly. "I was at all three," he said. "I know."

"You're back now, too," Egalmoth said, "so I believe it. The Valar would not have re-embodied you or your brothers if you had not found peace with yourselves, and all the spirits you hurt. Some people in Tirion still don't trust that you've changed, but they haven't gone through what we have." He took a long drink from his own glass. "And I only had a taste of what your torment was."

"It was hard for all of us," Amrod murmured. "I forgive you, Egalmoth."

"Thank you," Egalmoth said, grasping his hand briefly. After he let go, he chuckled. "Sorry if that was a little much. I didn't mean anything by it, other than friendship."

Amrod smiled. "Of course. It was hard, letting you go, even though I wasn't in love with you. You were a good friend."

"I missed you, too," Egalmoth said. "Not just because I wanted you." He shook his head. "Look at us. Thousands of years old, and reminiscing about an adolescent not-quite-romance gone awry."

"Well, we've both found where we fit now," Amrod said. "Let's give friendship another shot, shall we?"

"With considerably less murder this time around," Egalmoth agreed heartily. He raised his glass, and they toasted: "To friendship."

Amrod downed the last of the drink, savoring the taste. "Now, tell me about how you and Tuilindo fell in love," he said, leaning back in his chair. "When we were boys, two men together was a scandal or a secret. I know things were different in Beleriand, but wasn't Gondolin a haven for Noldor customs?"

"Not all of them," Egalmoth said. "And there were a substantial number of Sindar among us, also. The laws and customs around marriage were much looser."

"What about now?" Amrod inquired. "I'm sure you've heard the news that my brother is engaged to a man, though their wedding seems to be far off. I don't keep up with such things if I can help it—despite what happened between us, my failure to love you romantically was far from personal—but surely the laws in Valinor haven't changed _that_ much...?"

Egalmoth shrugged. "It's been a long few ages," he said. "Tuilindo and I never married in Gondolin, though our love was no secret. When we were both re-embodied, in the Second Age... Being a noble in Gondolin isn't that impressive here, so our relationship didn't matter much politically. The customs were relaxed; folk were more understanding. But when Tuilindo proposed..."

"Are you wed, then?" Amrod asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It took another age, alas," Egalmoth admitted, "but yes. Men can marry men, and women can marry women. The Vanyar still turn their noses up at the practice, but the Valar have not come to scold us, and society has not crumbled around our ears!" He laughed. "I assure you, Amrod, your brother will find much less trouble with Findekáno being a man than he will with Findekáno being a cousin."

"Well, we knew that," Amrod hummed. "But it is good to hear, nonetheless."

"You know, I chose the rainbow as my emblem for my house," Egalmoth mentioned.

Amrod laughed, clapping his hands. "You did not!" he exclaimed. The rainbow had long been a subtle symbol of those who had less traditional relationships with love and gender; though he had come to discover he was on the queer side of queer itself and did not share Egalmoth's experience with loving men, he still felt a connection to the dazzling display of color the rainbow portrayed.

"Oh, but I did!" Egalmoth giggled, sipping at his second drink. "I think that is what drew Tuilindo to me in the first place."

"A match made in heaven," Amrod joked.

"I am Lord of the Heavenly Arch," Egalmoth said modestly.

"And what is he the lord of?" he asked.

"Well, he meant the bird, but it's fitting, if you know what I mean..." Egalmoth winked. "The Swallow."

* * *

It was odd how easily Amrod integrated back into polite society. He was a Fëanorian, a Kinslayer, present at Alqualondë and Doriath and Sirion. Yet for some reason, he and Amras were the first to be accepted as normal people, their sins mostly forgiven. Yes, there were still some people who wouldn't meet their eyes, but Amrod had friends now. Not just Egalmoth, but others, too—some old, some new. Eldamar had given them another chance.

Yet their brothers were not necessarily extended the same welcome. Despite all they had done to repair relations between their house and the Sindar, Tyelko and Curvo were still given a wide berth every time they went out in public. Moryo had left to find himself on Tol Eressëa, and though he sent happy word back home, he had not found the confidence to return.

Maedhros, the head of the House of Fëanáro, was distrusted by all even as he worked tirelessly to gain the favor of every disparate faction of Eldalië. His betrothal to Fingon was official now, but the date of their wedding had not been set—there was still too much political turmoil swirling about him yet.

Perhaps it was because he and Amras had kept to themselves outside of the Kinslayings, Amrod mused. They hadn't had many warriors under their command, and they'd roamed the plains of East Beleriand slaying orcs. They hadn't led armies or kidnapped princesses or rubbed shoulders with mortal men, and they'd never come close to reclaiming one of their father's Silmarils. They were left out of the gruesome stories, the younger brothers overlooked and conflated with each other, and thus forgiven most easily. Even those they had directly harmed, like Egalmoth, found them at the very least tolerable.

So while Maedhros waited patiently for his wedding day to be politically feasible, Amras emerged as Tirion's most eligible bachelor. It didn't matter that he was a Kinslaying Fëanárion, he was good-looking, from a noble family, and interested in everyone who gave him a chance. He bounced from lover to lover, never quite finding one to settle down with, but having a grand old time.

Amrod didn't understand his twin's love life. For all they were so close, that was something he could not share in. It was as if Amras had stolen away any romantic affection he could have had, taking it all for himself. Well, he could have it, as far as Amrod was concerned. That was one headache he was grateful to live without.

Now that it was clear Amras' romantic escapades wouldn't get in the way with their own brotherly relationship, Amrod was happy to let his twin swoon over pretty girls and cry over witty boys. Besides, among his new friends were Elladan and Elrohir.

Amras' mild infatuation with Elladan did not turn into anything serious, though it was unbearable to watch them flirt. At least Elrohir was just as exasperated with this nonsense as Amrod was. Now _there_ was someone he could understand.

One of the downsides of having an identical twin were the times when, inevitably, you were mistaken for them. It was even more confusing when you shared a name.

"Ambarussa! Ambarussa!" someone cried as he wandered the city streets with Elrohir one evening. Amrod turned around at the sound of his name, coming face to face with a blond-haired someone he didn't recognize.

"Ambarussa, you never came calling after the other night," the elf pouted. He flung an arm around him, and Amrod could smell alcohol on his breath. "My heart is broken!"

Amrod shrugged the drunk off him. "You're looking for my brother," he said tiredly. "He's out drinking with some friends." The friends were Elladan, Tyelko, and Curvo, but this man didn't need to know details.

The elf frowned. "But you are Ambarussa."

"They share that name," Elrohir explained, placing himself between Amrod and the drunk. "Easy mistake to make. Now please, be on your way."

Grumbling, the elf lumbered off to bother someone else. Amrod brushed a golden hair off his shoulder and sighed.

"Thank you," he told Elrohir.

"Younger twins have to stick together," he said wisely.

"I thought Elladan was younger," Amrod teased.

"Well, we're both older than our sister!" Elrohir laughed. He paused, and Amrod knew he was thinking of Arwen, long since passed on to follow Lúthien into mortality.

"Hey," Amrod said, interrupting him before he could get too melancholy. "I mean it. It's hard enough to explain that I'm not Amras as it is, adding this layer of romantic drama on top of it..." He shook his head. "It was easier when Amras was already married!"

"Do you think he'll ever get up the nerve to ask Elladan out?" Elrohir wondered.

Amrod snorted. "That? I don't think he's all too serious about your brother."

"I don't know," Elrohir mused. "I've seen the way he looks at him..."

"I can never tell with that sort of thing," Amrod admitted.

"I've noticed." Elrohir looked at him curiously. "When did you figure out you were like that? Not in the least romantic, I mean."

"Did I ever tell you about Egalmoth?" he asked.

"Didn't he kill you back in Middle-earth?" Elrohir said in concern.

Amrod laughed and explained. "We're friends again, now," he concluded. "But yeah—I don't know how long it would have taken me to figure out I didn't want love if things hadn't fallen apart with him. In a way, I'm glad it all happened."

"Hm." Elrohir stared into the distance, tugging at the hem of his shirt absently. "You know, I never really thought about that sort of thing. Even when Elladan had his flings, and knocked up a mortal queen one time..."

"What?!" Amrod exclaimed. "You've got to tell me that story!"

Elrohir laughed. "Ask Elladan," he said. "He'll tell it better, if he's not too embarrassed."

Amrod made a mental note to do so. "What were you saying?"

"Nothing," Elrohir dismissed. "Nothing important, I mean. Just...I don't know, I guess being friends with you made me realize that we're alike in that way, also. A hopeless romantic for a twin, but no interest in romance for ourselves."

"Hm," Amrod said. "I hadn't thought of it that way." When Elrohir didn't say anything else, he asked, "Are there any embarrassing stories about Elladan that you _can_ tell? About him wooing someone who wasn't interested?"

"There was this one time he was in love with a singer, and tried to improve his voice..." Elrohir smirked. "My father learned to sing when he was young—he had a knack for it. His brother, though, was awful, and it seems that Elladan and I followed the same pattern. Ada says he doesn't know how Maglor taught him to sing but not Elros, but—" He broke off, noticing the grimace on Amrod's face. "Oh. I'm sorry."

Amrod shook his head. "No, it's...well, it's not alright. But..." The reminder of Maglor hurt. Even though Moryo had been gone for years, at least Amrod could visit him, knew he was safe and happy. Maglor...none of them knew if they would ever see him again.

"I admire him very much," Elrohir said gently. "My father is fair in his storytelling, but I can promise you—the good outweighs the bad. If you have been pardoned, I am sure he will be, too."

"It's been so long." Amrod rubbed his forehead. "We have no idea where he is, or what happened to him."

"I know you'll see him again," Elrohir said, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"How can you know?" Amrod asked bitterly.

Elrohir's eyes went hard. "I'll never see my sister again. That's a pain I don't want anyone else to endure. If there's even the slightest chance for Maglor to come home, I'll bother the Valar until they allow it. You're like family, Amrod. And so is he, even though I've never met him."

Wordlessly, Amrod embraced him. They held that hug for a long time, and when at last they let go, neither of their eyes were free from tears.

"Blasted Valar," Amrod grumbled. "Who needs god-kings, anyway? Their rules never did us any good..."

"Now you're sounding like a Fëanorian again!" Elrohir clapped him on the back. "Treason and blasphemy, just like Ada always told us you'd preach!"

"I'm joking," Amrod said, rolling his eyes. "Well, mostly."

"You know, it's not just a Fëanorian thing to think that way anymore," Elrohir mentioned. "There's a faction in the Noldorin courts that wants the Ainur out of Tirion without special permission. They say this is an elvish city, and it should stay elvish."

"That's a little...much," Amrod said.

"Yes, but that's not all they're saying," Elrohir said. "They're talking about getting rid of the High King."

Amrod scoffed. "Arafinwë? They couldn't."

"I don't think that's the real goal," Elrohir said. "See, my father doesn't like to bother with politics anymore. He had enough of that in Middle-earth. But my mother likes the court gossip, and she's gotten me going to court with her. She's an Arafinwëan, you know, Arafinwë is her grandfather."

"Ai, yes, Artanis's child," Amrod muttered. "Sorry—I'm sure she's wonderful. But I can't stand Artanis. She thinks just because she's the only cousin who survived everything and came back, still glowing and Calaquendi, that she's better than everyone."

Elrohir laughed. "Don't talk about my grandmother that way!" he said in mock anger. "But really, it's kind of refreshing to hear you complain about her. Growing up, she was this perfect, beautiful woman none of us could possibly live up to. I love her, of course, but she does exemplify everything wrong with queens and ladies."

"You've intrigued me," Amrod said. "Go on."

"See, the real goal is to run an election," Elrohir explained. "Some of the folk who lived among mortals got the idea from them. We can't get rid of royalty and nobility, it's too ingrained in our system, especially since no one ever dies around here. But if we can rotate others in and out of office, we can get more people involved in the government. Give the people a say, not just the king."

"That's genius," Amrod said, impressed. "What does Arafinwë think of it?"

"I don't think he's taking it at all seriously," Elrohir said. "It's mostly just talk, right now. And no one 'important' enough is on board, so it won't get far."

"That's ridiculous," Amrod exclaimed. "This is exactly why we need this sort of thing, so the less 'important' folks get heard. The nobles want to oust the Ainur from the city? They're just doing that so they can make themselves more important. What about all the common people who work with the lesser Maiar? Who live alongside them? I know someone who tells stories to a river spirit in exchange for clean water. If we banish the Ainur—"

"I thought about going and voicing my support," Elrohir interrupted. "But even if I'm Galadriel's grandson, Arafinwë's great-grandson, I haven't done any great deeds. My voice wouldn't mean much. But if you wanted to go to court, tell them what you think—you're a Fëanorian. Sure, maybe not everyone loves you for that, but you can't ignore the power that gives you."

"Maedhros is the politician, not me," Amrod demurred.

"He's busy with other things," Elrohir pointed out. "Getting Nolofinwë on his side, for one thing. I hear he still won't agree to give Fingon away, or that they're arguing over a date, or something like that. And he has to be the face of your family. You can just be _you_, a someone from an important house who sticks up for everyone else."

Amrod considered it. "You might be on to something," he mused. "When's the next court session? Maybe I'll listen in, to hear what they're saying first hand."

"Next week," Elrohir said. He beamed. "I'll go with you. It'll be so much more interesting with a friend there—Naneth just likes to get the dirt on people's silly affairs."

Amrod grinned. "That sounds like a plan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EGALMOTH SAYS GAY RIGHTS!  
...also, me? projecting my awkward same(ish)-gender not-attraction onto fictional characters? what are you talking about?? (Amrod is a tame example, you should read [this aro Legolas fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13414653) I wrote, lmao.)  
Also, sorry-not-sorry about all the gay jokes :)
> 
> Okay, on a slightly more serious note...queer culture in Valinor is VERY fun to think about! I wish I could have delved into a little more! But since the Plot Must Go On, I'll instead briefly talk about my queer Fëanorian headcanons.  
Maedhros is [caedsexual](https://lgbta.wikia.org/wiki/Caedsexual) \+ gay (though I don't really go into the caed part of his identity in this fic); Maglor is bi + polyamorous; Celegorm is aromantic + pansexual; Caranthir is aromantic + heterosexual; Curufin is a disaster bisexual; Amras is pan; and Amrod is aroace! If you couldn't tell, Elrohir in this fic is also aroace - he's only just figuring it out now.
> 
> This chapter is chock-full of borrowed phrases:  
"the queer side of queer itself" came from [Vanilla](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/178671702521/) by Billy Merrell, a book of poems that narrates one character's journey of realizing he's asexual as well as gay and another character's process of realizing they are nonbinary.  
"That was one headache he was grateful to live without" is from Lady Knight by Tamora Pierce, talking about my girl Keladry of Mindelan, a [(semi-)canon aromantic character](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/175392224087/).  
"pretty girls and witty boys" is adapted from a line in "Drink With Me" from Les Misérables, my favorite musical of all time.
> 
> [I posted this fic all at once, but rest assured I would be happy to receive comments on more than just the final chapter. Thanks for reading and commenting!]


	7. Amras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amras realizes what he should have known all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not /required/ reading for this chapter since I do go over the relevant details in fiction, but I'm obsessed with this headcanon and the fic is VERY good, so if you've got the time I would highly recommend reading [The Last Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17411846) by Gilded_Tweezers, which I am regarding as canon for this fic! (Warning: NSFW)
> 
> Also, this chapter features a SECOND sexy massage, but with the other main pairing in this fic...

Amras stomped into the room and slammed down the love letter that had been returned to him. "Look at this!" he snapped, trying to keep himself from crying. "I went to all that trouble of writing him a poem, and he—rrrgh! He sends it back!"

Elrohir and Amrod, playing chess across the room, just looked at each other. "Tragic," Amrod said through a yawn. "Though having read that poem, I don't blame him. Which suitor was this, again? Gildor Inglorion?"

"_Galdor,_" Amras corrected.

"Easy mistake to make," Elrohir teased. "Did you address it to the wrong person? Maybe that's why he rejected you."

"If you're going to make fun of me, you can just leave," Amras said, turning away from them with his nose in the air.

Amrod sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. I know it's hard, but you can't expect us to be sympathetic when this happens every other week."

Elladan stood, walking over to Amras and placing his hands on his shoulders. "Maybe you two should go for a walk," he suggested. "I'll deal with our poor lovesick friend."

Amrod and Elrohir looked at each other and shrugged, then headed out. Elladan muttered something under his breath that Amras didn't quite catch, then began giving him a gentle massage.

Amras sighed, relaxing under his friend's touch. As he was reminded every time he caught a glimpse of Elladan's abs or arms, he was _strong_.

"I'm sorry they're not sympathetic," Elladan murmured. "They just don't get it. I've been in your shoes, I know how you feel."

"Thanks, Elladan," Amras said. "I always know I can count on you."

Elladan kissed his head, and Amras froze for a moment, his heart skipping a beat. "Don't get sappy on me," he said weakly, but he didn't really mean it. His mild affection for Elladan, the reason he'd gotten back into the dating scene, had only deepened into a more intense infatuation. Maybe that was why he couldn't keep any other longer than a few months—something always pulled him back here.

But Elladan was his _friend_. They had become very close in the past few years, and Amras couldn't believe he'd gone so long without the other pair of twins in his and Amrod's life. Amras valued this friendship more than anything but his own relationship with Amrod, putting it on the level of commitment he held for his other brothers. He didn't want to risk ruining that friendship for a chance at something else.

"You're the sappy one, saying things like that." Elladan smiled, sitting down beside Amras. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"What, Galdor?" Amras snorted. "No, not really. I knew it was falling apart between us, I'm not really surprised. I suppose I'm just frustrated he was the one who made the decision."

"I can understand why he'd do it, after last time," Elladan said.

"Last time?" Amras raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean? I know you two knew each other in Middle-earth, however briefly—"

"More than just knew," Elladan laughed. "We had a brief fling, when he was delivering a message from Círdan to my father. I ended things, then, and he's been sore about it ever since. I think half the reason he was interested in you was to get back at me."

"What a cheat!" Amras shook his head in disgust. "He never even brought you up. I only knew you two had met because you mentioned it when we first started going out together."

"I didn't want to ruin anything, if what you had lasted," Elladan explained. "Besides, if he thought he was making me jealous, he wasn't." He smiled to Amras. "I know I can count on you, too."

There was something in his glowing eyes that made Amras' heart warm. He reached over to take Elladan's hand, squeezing it. "Of course you do," he murmured.

"The real reason I left Galdor was because I wasn't over Gildor," Elladan confided like he was telling a dirty secret. "Amrod isn't the only one who would mix them up. One night I shouted the wrong name, and I couldn't face Galdor after that..."

Amras burst into laughter. "Manwë's mustache, Elladan!" he exclaimed. "I never know which of your stories are true, but by the Valar I want that one to be."

"I wouldn't joke about something that embarrassing!" Elladan insisted. "Or something as serious as having my heart broken. Gildor and I were almost married, did you know that? But then...well, I made some impulsive choices, and Gildor couldn't live with it."

"And neither of you ever found anyone else?" Amras asked. "That was an awfully long time ago."

"Gildor has his own issues," Elladan said darkly. "Family shames and secrets. And frankly, I dodged an arrow there, he's kind of a prick. As for me..." He shrugged. "I'm over him now, of course, but for a long time I wasn't. And—well, my father was disappointed in some of the choices I made, too, and he kept me too busy to search for love for a long while. It wasn't 'til we came to Aman that I had any time for a relationship, but I didn't really feel like going out and finding someone. I figured if it was going to happen, it would happen on its own...and besides, I have Elrohir to keep me company."

"And look at me, jumping right back into it the moment I decide to give up on Thennes," Amras said ironically. "No wonder Amrod thinks he's not enough for me..."

"I don't think he really thinks that," Elladan chided. "He knows how much you love him."

Amras sighed, leaning his head on his friend's shoulder. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Elladan," he murmured.

"Love you too," Elladan said, and though Amras couldn't see his face, he could hear a smile. "That Fëanorian charm has affected me, too, I suppose."

Amras sat up, looking at him with an eyebrow raised. "Are you flirting with me, Elrondion?" He'd meant the accusation to come out as a tease, but too much of his heart wanted the answer to be yes for it to sound entirely insincere.

Elladan sat up straighter, a smirk spreading across his face. "I don't know, Fëanárion," he drawled. "Are _you_ flirting with _me_?"

Amras stared at him for a few moments, entirely too aware of how kissable his friend's lips looked, before he decided to throw caution to the wind. Elladan seemed to reach the same conclusion, for they both leaned into each other and met in a frank and honest kiss.

Elladan tasted like mint, his soft lips bringing a tingle to Amras' own. There was no pretense in their kiss, no hesitancy or fear. Elladan could tell exactly what Amras wanted, and gave it to him. Their kissing grew passionate, until Elladan had pushed him into the sofa and lay on top of him, his hands tangled in Amras' auburn hair.

They took quick breaks for air, but returned to making out as quickly as possible. Amras felt light-headed in the best way possible, giddy and overjoyed that Elladan wanted this as much as he did. He drank in Elladan's affection, still wanting more, more, more.

At last Elladan started laughing, collapsing next to him on the sofa. Amras clung to him, burying his face into Elladan's shaking chest, grateful to be held by this man he loved so much.

"I've been wanting to do that for so long," Elladan admitted. "Ever since the first day I met you, to be honest."

"Even though Amrod is the prettier twin?" Amras joked.

Elladan gave him another kiss, keeping it short and sweet this time. "We both know that's nonsense," he scolded. "I want you for you, Amras."

Amras' heart lurched. "When you say that..."

"I mean it," Elladan said seriously, his eyes darkening from brown to black. "Look, Amras. If you only want to make out, that's great, and I'm entirely here for that. But frankly, I've gone and fallen in love with you, and I'll take anything you want to give."

Amras pulled him closer, kissing him until he couldn't breathe. When at last they broke apart, gasping for air, he laughed softly. "I want to give you my heart," he said shyly. "I don't know what I've been doing, searching for love in other places. I always knew it was right here. I was just worried it would change things between us."

"Of course it will," Elladan murmured. "But in the best way possible."

* * *

Not every family would take well to their son courting a Fëanorian, but luckily Elrond had a soft spot for anyone related to Maglor. Celebrían had long since accepted Elrond's ties to the House of Fëanor, and if it was hard for her to see her son with Amras, she hid it well.

Elrohir and Amrod, of course, teased them to no end. "What took you so long?" Elrohir had demanded when they had walked in on them making out later that very first day. Amrod shielded his eyes and complained loudly about public displays of affection, but he congratulated Amras when things had settled down a little.

Curvo and Tyelko didn't quite realize anything different was going on in this relationship compared to the other ones Amras had attempted recently, but supported him unquestionably. Maedhros, on the other hand, was more serious about this new development.

He approached Amras one night, weariness in his eyes. "Amras," he began, collapsing in a chair.

"Yes?" he asked. "Nelyo, are you alright? You look exhausted."

Maedhros waved a hand noncommittally. With interest, Amras noticed that his hand glinted with a pale golden glitter; he looked closer, and noticed the same golden paint across Maedhros' face and arms. It seemed he had tried out the golden markings he'd mentioned.

"Just politics," he dismissed.

"Your paint looks nice," Amras offered.

He smiled, and suddenly the handsome, youthful oldest brother Amras had grown up admiring merged with the scarred and solemn warrior he had become in Middle-earth, creating the image of the wise and noble man Amras had always known he could be. "Thank you," he said. "I wore it in public for the first time today. Many people stared, but Finno loves it, and those I explained it to were impressed."

"It becomes you," Amras said. "You look...more like yourself. Both how you used to be, and then how you became. And how you are now."

Maedhros grasped Amras' hand with his golden fingers. "Thank you," he murmured. "But I didn't come here searching for compliments."

"What did you come here about, then?" Amras asked.

"To talk about you and Elladan," Maedhros said frankly.

Amras narrowed his eyes. Maedhros had up until that point expressed nothing other than a vague ambivalence to his new relationship, and he couldn't ignore the worry that pricked his heart. "What about us?"

"You know that Maglor and I cared for Elrond and Elros," Maedhros began.

"Yes," Amras said slowly, unsure of where he was going. "You all but adopted them."

Maedhros shrugged. "Then I hope you can understand how this whole situation is...a little strange for me."

"We're not _actually_ related," Amras dismissed. "Well, we are both Finwëan, but he's so many generations removed—"

"Yes, I know our family trees better than anyone," Maedhros interrupted. "It's just that...Elrond is almost like a son to me, or perhaps an odd mix of a nephew and a son—it's complicated. So seeing his son courting my little brother is _weird._"

Amras sighed, rolling his eyes. "_Maedhros_," he complained. "I didn't expect this from _you_ of all people!"

Maedhros chuckled. "No, I'm not trying to dissuade you from anything," he assured. "And you're right, I have no room to talk when it comes to incest. I'm engaged to my cousin! What I mean is that I don't know who I should be protecting more. When Kano and Curvo began seeing the women who became their wives, I had no doubt who I would be comforting should things fall apart. And you know that when I heard you were engaged to Thennes, I rode all the way down from Himring to meet her and make sure she was worthy of you."

"Yes, I remember," Amras said, smiling at the fond memory. It was a testament to his healing that he could look back on his life with Thennes with affection but little pain. "You ended up staying with Amrod and I until everyone came for the wedding."

Maedhros nodded. "But Elladan is practically my grandson," he explained. "I'm just as concerned for his well-being as I am for yours."

Amras squeezed his brother's golden hand. "You don't have to worry about either of us," he assured. "I have a feeling that this time, it's going to stick."

"I hope so." Maedhros smiled. "It will be hard for all of us if you are wrong."

* * *

"Amras?" Elladan said one day as they were curled up together in bed. Amras' lover lay in his lap, twirling his fingers through his warm red hair.

"Hm?" Amras turned a page in the book he was reading, a fast-paced adventure Elrohir had recommended him about a Teler who was attempting to circumnavigate the globe after Eru first changed the world.

"Can we...talk?"

Amras stilled. He laid down his book, looking down at his lover. "Of course," he murmured. "What is it?"

Elladan sighed, closing his eyes. "There's something I need to tell you."

A knot of anxiety tightened in Amras' belly. Oh dear. This could either be very good, or very, very bad.

"Do you remember when I told you about my relationship with Gildor?" Elladan asked. "And how he broke with me because I made some rash decisions?"

So it was to be bad news. Amras braced himself for something awful, though he didn't think there was anything that would cause a similar reaction in himself. "Yes," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Elladan took a deep breath. "I love you, Amras," he said. "I love you a hundred times more than I ever loved Gildor. I love you so fucking much and I—I want to be your husband someday."

Amras' heart lurched. He was not prepared for this intensity of emotion, not right now—they had discussed their relationship in the long term, perhaps arriving at marriage, but those words..._your husband_... Elladan had never said that before. Amras had had a wife, once, and nothing could replace her. But a husband...he couldn't repress a silly grin at the thought.

"I—" He leaned down and gave Elladan a quick kiss on the forehead. "Elladan, me too. I love you, I want to be your husband, I— Whatever it is you have to tell me, I swear I won't leave you over it. I'm a Kinslayer! I have no room to judge. If you can still want me despite all that, I can want you endlessly, unconditionally."

Elladan sat up, staring at him with a serious expression. His eyes changed color like they did sometimes when he was feeling some deep and intense emotion; his Maia ancestry was distant and distilled with elvish blood, but in moments like this he was so divinely beautiful that it awed Amras. He stared into his lover's dark eyes as they gleamed and shifted to an icy blue, just for a moment.

"I have a son," Elladan said.

Amras continued to stare, completely taken aback by the revelation. "Um," he said. He tried again: "Uh."

"Amras?" Elladan said, his eyes melting back to black in his worry.

Amras blinked, shaking his head briefly. He clutched Elladan's hand and pulled him in for a strong, reaffirming kiss. Then he placed his hand on his lover's lips to shush Elladan before he began to babble anxiously.

"I must admit, that is a surprise," he said. "But I meant what I said. I love you." He freed Elladan's mouth, and added, "I do have questions, though. Is your son...around? In Valinor?"

Elladan laughed shortly. "Definitely not," he said with a wry smile. "He—well, let's just say that my father's family has..._history_ with mortality."

"Tell me everything," Amras instructed. This looked to be a better story than the one in his book.

"You're sure you aren't upset?" Elladan asked worriedly.

"I told you, El, this doesn't change anything." Amras leaned into his lover, cherishing the strength and solidity of his presence. "But I do want to know more."

"How much do you know of the history of the Dúnedain?" Elladan asked.

Amras groaned. "A history lesson?"

"I'm taking that as a no," Elladan said, poking him gently in the face. "It's important, I swear."

He launched into an explanation about the line of Elros, his father's brother, from the Kings of Númenor to the Faithful who fled the island's destruction to the establishment of the kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor. Mercifully, he kept it brief and to the point, skipping over the conflicts of generations with the simple phrase, "The two kingdoms fell into disrepair, and Arnor fractured out of existence entirely until only one claimant to any remnant of a throne lived. This was Arvedui, the Last King of Arthedain. The daughter of the king of Gondor, Fíriel, was wed to him in an attempt to reunite the kingdoms."

"I'm guessing it didn't work out that way."

Elladan grimaced. "No, it did not. Arvedui was cowardly and rash, a weak ruler. Fíriel, on the other hand, was the smartest woman in either kingdom."

Amras raised his eyebrows. "And the most beautiful, if I see where this is going."

Elladan blushed. "Alright, yes. She was quite attractive. My father sent me to the wedding as a delegate—the son of Elrond, there to witness the reunion of the house of Elros. Fíriel, though, was as unimpressed with her husband as I was. We flirted, and, well... After Arvedui left her rooms on their wedding night, I slipped in to join her."

"You never could resist a challenge," Amras tutted.

"I didn't expect it to go as far as it did," Elladan admitted. "But she told me—she wanted to bear my son. To 'reinvigorate' the line of Elros with the blood of Eärendil. And when a woman like that tells you what she wants you to do..."

"You can't say no," Amras finished softly. He knew. His first night with Thennes had been very similar. He'd been hesitant to make love to her, knowing it would mean they were tied together in an irreversible way even if they didn't follow the official laws of Valinórë. But she had wanted him, and he wanted her, and she convinced him it was worth it. And she was right.

"I only met Fíriel's eldest son once," Elladan said. "But—you know when you see your child. Aranarth was my flesh and blood." He paused. "I don't think Fíriel ever told him. It's probably better that way, that we keep it a secret."

"So Gildor was upset you were faithless to him with a mortal queen?" Amras concluded.

"He was more upset that it resulted in a child," Elladan said. "But yes. I should have seen it coming that we weren't going to work out."

"And what did your father think of all this?"

"He was upset at first, but he came around." Elladan smiled. "After the kingdom of Arnor fell for good, and the kingdom of Gondor lost its final king, Aranarth became the first Chieftain of the Dúnedain. Because Aranarth's descendents were also the descendents of my father, he took a special interest in them, more than he would have if they had simply drifted from the line of his long-dead brother. It may have saved the Dúnedain, in the end."

Amras frowned as he remembered something. "Didn't your sister marry the last of the Dúnedain Chieftains? Aranarth's direct descendent, king of the Reunited Kingdom and all that? I was dead at the time, but the tapestries in Mandos made a very big deal out of the event."

"Love, everyone in this sprawling family is related twenty times over," Elladan said. "And it was so far between myself and Aragorn—"

"I'm not trying to protest," Amras interrupted. "Just trying to figure things out."

"Yes. Arwen wed Aragorn, and so chose as my grandmother's grandmother did, to become mortal like him." Elladan sighed. Remembering his sister always made him sad, in a way few people could understand. Amras understood. He was still missing Maglor, after all. "And...like my son did. I don't know if he was even given the option."

Amras kissed him on the cheek. "I'm here for you, Elladan."

Elladan turned to look at him, those dark eyes warming to a deep, rich brown. "Always?"

"Always." Amras drew him closer and they kissed long and slow and gentle, until they lay facing each other on their bed.

"I love you," Elladan murmured.

Amras smiled. "El...were you serious about being my husband?"

"If you're serious about being mine." Elladan kissed him again, and Amras soaked in his love.

"I always want you," Amras whispered. "Always, always. I said it to Thennes, and I meant it then. But I swear, this time around, I will not make the same mistakes I did then. No more Kinslaying. Only love."

"And no more faithlessness," Elladan agreed. "Only trust." He smiled. "Then what are we waiting for? Time? We've had years of friendship, months of courtship. I think that's enough time."

Amras sat up, his eyes wide. "Wait. Elladan, are you proposing to me? Right here, right now?"

Elladan rolled out of bed and swept Amras off his feet. Setting Amras on the edge of the bed, he knelt. "You did it last time, right?"

"Actually, Thennes did," Amras said, his heart pounding. He saw Elladan falter, and hurriedly added, "But I'm not complaining! Oh, Valar, I...did not expect this, I...ai!"

Elladan looked down at his hands sheepishly. "We don't have rings. Aren't we supposed to have rings? It was simpler in Middle-earth, but everything I've read of the Valinorean traditions—"

Amras couldn't help himself; he leaned down to shut Elladan up with a kiss. "We'll deal with rings and tradition later," he said firmly. "Right now—right now, I just want to hear you say it."

Elladan cleared his throat, his face reddening and his eyes sparkling a thousand different colors. Amras had never seen him so divine; it was as if Melian herself was shining through his loving gaze. The gaze that, in this moment, was only for him.

"Pityafinwë Ambarussa Fëanárion," he said gravely, and Amras shivered in delight as he heard all his Quenya names slip so smoothly off his Sinda lover's tongue, "will you marry me?"

Oh, it was even better the second time. The words were music to his ears, drawing him back into the larger Song, filling him with wondrous love.

And yet...

Amras looked down at him and remembered Thennes, her green eyes bright and fearsome, her face bloodstained in the aftermath of a battle as she pressed a ring into his hands and demanded to know his answer. He remembered slipping the ring on his finger, searching in his pockets for the one he'd been preparing to give to her, barely being able to stop kissing her to give her his answer in the affirmative.

He remembered that heart-shattering moment when those same green eyes looked back at him with pain and disgust, two little silver-haired boys with eyes the colors of a quartz caught in light huddled behind her and wept in fear of him. He remembered her pressing the ring back into his hand and demanding hers in return; the snap of a bond between them broken as soon as the bands were exchanged. He was so empty afterward, losing three brothers and a wife in one fell swoop.

But he saw none of that now. Elladan's eyes danced between shades of brown and blue and amber, but never Thennes' green. His were the eyes of an elf—an angelic elf, but an elf—an elf who loved him. And that was enough.

"Yes," he said softly, and Elladan picked him up and spun him around in the air. "Yes!" he cried again, giggling until his betrothed ended his laughter with a kiss; and then again, "Yes, Elladan Peredhel," as Elladan took him to their bed; and also, "Yes," a year later on their wedding day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elladan: You know when you see your child.  
Moryo: Um,,
> 
> I briefly mention that Gildor has his own "family history"... I'm playing around with the headcanon that the reason his name is Inglorion is because he's Finrod's bastard child, but it's not super relevant here and I'm not sold on the idea yet. Maybe one day I'll fic it and see how I feel about it then.  
Also, that book Amras was reading? I might have to fic that too!  
***ETA 7/9/20*** I did, in fact, fic that! Read about the Telerin adventurer's journey [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25162372)!  

> 
> [I posted this fic all at once, but rest assured I would be happy to receive comments on more than just the final chapter. Thanks for reading and commenting!]


	8. Curufinwë

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufinwë reaches out to lost loved ones, with mixed results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick timeline note: At the end of the last chapter I sped things all the way up to Amras and Elladan's wedding day, but that was more of a flash forward than anything else - they're not married yet when we get to this chapter.

Despite what some of the stories might lead one to believe, Curufinwë loved his family more than anything else in all of Arda. He idolized his father; he adored his mother; he would die for each one of his brothers, and had killed for them. But somehow, people only seemed to judge him by his relationship with his son.

When Curufinwë had first married the love of his life, he could not have imagined where his life would lead. Quildalótië was gentle and kind, and she softened his edges. In turn he gave her strength and made her laugh—let her laugh, at her own jokes, when she was hesitant to open her heart to the family that had come before her.

As one of Fëanáro's youngest children, Curufinwë never anticipated being the first of his brothers to become a father. But by the time Quilla announced her pregnancy, he and Makalaurë were the only ones who were married, and Kano's wife Ezellë hadn't revealed herself to be the mothering type.

It was a family joke that Fëanáro desired forty-nine grandchildren, seven each from his seven sons to match the feat he and Nerdanel had accomplished. It was unlikely to happen, however; Curufinwë had never heard of any other family with as many children as his own, and even if all his brothers wished to marry, they would not also wish for parenthood.

Nelyo's tryst with Findekáno, if it ever came to honest light, would never produce children; Kano and Ezellë had not revealed any intentions to have a child; Tyelko refused to settle down; Moryo wouldn't accept a wife even if one wanted him; the twins were still in their growing pains. Curufinwë could very well be Fëanáro's only chance for grandchildren, and as he was in all ways, Curvo was eager to please his father.

Still, Tyelperinquar's birth had been more wondrous than any assurance from his parents could say. Curufinwë had never been so nervous, then so overwhelmed with love, than when he first beheld his son. Quilla held the tiny form of the infant elf in her arms gently, and she glowed with joy. In Aman, the light of the Calaquendi faded into the background of Valarin power, but in that moment Quilla shone brighter than Varda herself.

Even after Quilla had thrown her ring in his face in an attempt to break their marriage bond, even after he was separated from her by a vast ocean and a bitterness that cut his heart in twain, even after Tyelpë turned his back and refused to follow him along the path the Oath demanded—after all that, Curufinwë still loved her. He still loved Tyelpë. He still loved his brothers, his family, his people.

It was just that they did not all love him in return.

Now, with two of his brothers betrothed, Curufinwë had hopes that bonds could be reforged and hearts unbroken. Quilla refused to see him, purposefully avoiding him when he saw her in public and returning every letter he sent her unopened, but Tyelpë...

As Vairë weaved her tapestries and clothed the halls of Mandos, Curufinwë had watched his son outlive him and exceed him in every way. He could not ignore the jealousy he felt as Tyelpë picked up the pieces of his shattered reputation, reconciled with relatives who would have sold Curvo to Morgoth, and created rings of power beyond imagination. But more than jealousy he felt pride, pride for the son who was a worthy heir to his grandfather Fëanáro in a way that Curufinwë could never be.

Except for one thing. In an effort to renounce Curufinwë even further, Tyelpë's kind and trusting nature made him easily fooled. The moment Curufinwë saw the dazzling smile on Annatar's too-beautiful face, he knew this "Lord of Gifts" was up to no good. And when he saw the adoration with which Tyelpë looked upon Annatar, he would have torn the tapestry down and ripped it apart had he thought it would save him. But he knew it wouldn't, and it would ruin the work his grandmother Míriel had put into recording the fates of her descendents, so he contented himself with burning out the fire of his own fëa until he was exhausted of the strength to do so.

When Tyelpë was, inevitably, betrayed, Curufinwë could not bring himself to look upon the tapestries depicting the death and defilement of his son. Tyelko went, instead, and told him what had happened in the gentlest way possible.

Tyelpë had joined the mass of spirits in the Halls of Mandos. But no matter how long Curufinwë sought him out, he refused to be found. The only time Tyelpë let Curufinwë approach was just before his release and rebirth, and only at Námo's command. Curvo had not embraced his son, but simply wept and cried his name. If Tyelpë softened, he could not see it through his tears. And then he was gone.

But now, with Amras' wedding to Elladan rapidly approaching (even as Maedhros' wedding to Fingon was pushed further and further away as court politics became even more embroiled in the matter of what to do with the shocking concept of self-government and the decision on whether half-cousins could, indeed, marry under Valarin law was pushed aside), Curufinwë thought to try again.

It was hard enough that Kano could not be there. At Amras' first wedding, he had sung a love ballad composed specifically for Amras and Thennes, a song that brought everyone to tears. Afterward, he and Curvo had gone out and washed away the longing for their own far-away wives with an amount of alcohol that could have killed a mortal man. This time, with both Ezellë and Quildalótië so close and yet so far and Kano not there to wallow with him in misery, Curufinwë didn't know what he would do when his emotions overwhelmed him. Tyelko would try to comfort him, but in this case, he knew it would not be enough.

"Try again," Tyelko urged. "Curvo, I've never known you to be one to give up so easily. Ask for their forgiveness. We received it from the Sindar—why not Quilla? why not Tyelpë?"

"They've made their wishes quite clear," Curufinwë said grimly. "Quilla won't speak to me. The most Tyelpë will do is yell at me."

"That was years ago," Tyelko pointed out. "We've been alive again for almost a decade now. Try again, Curvo, I can't bear to see you miserable like this."

"When have I not been miserable?" Curvo grumbled. "When we were children? Ever since we left Aman it has been one misfortune after another. Returning has not been easy! Where is Huan, Tyelko? where is Father? Things _cannot_ go back to the way they once were."

Tyelko scowled. "Írissë is still our friend. Mother is here, as is Grandmother Míriel. By the void, Curvo, even _Moryo_ is better-adjusted than you! _Nelyo_ is faring better, and he went mad by the end! You've never been able to swallow your pride, but now that you've admitted your wrongs it seems you won't accept your rights. What is the point of being forgiven if you do not work to better your life?"

That was how Curufinwë ended up on the doorstep of his wife's home, a place he had promised himself he would never visit again. Gathering all his strength and remembering how cross Tyelko would be if he didn't follow through, he knocked.

An answer was a long time in coming. A servant cracked open the door, saw him, and slammed it shut again. He could hear the elf scurrying away to inform their mistress of her visitor.

When at last the door opened again, it was not Quildalótië who stood there, but a dark-haired woman with eyes of emerald green. Her mouth was set in a hard line, her ink-stained hands on her hips in a picture of disapproval.

"She doesn't want to see you," Ezellë said flatly. "And neither do I. We want nothing to do with the Fëanárions anymore; we washed our hands of you when you rebelled."

Curufinwë opened his fist, revealing his wedding band in his palm. "I never gave it up," he rasped. "Even after death, it was returned to me. Please, Ezellë. I know she still has hers."

Ezellë's grim frown did not soften. "If you see what she has done with her ring, will you accept her choice?" she demanded.

"...Yes," Curufinwë said, dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

"Wait here," she instructed, and slammed the door in his face.

When Ezellë returned, this time Quilla came with her. Her round face, once so kind and open, was red with anger. As the wife of a Fëanárion and the daughter of a politician, she had not been clothed in rags before, but now even her lightest outfit dripped in jewels. Her hair was done up in an elaborate bun, exposing the curve of her neck and the point of her delicate ears, and Curufinwë went weak at the knees. She was queenly, a lady in her own right.

"You want to see what I did with the ring you would not exchange with me?" Quilla demanded, wasting no time with pretenses. "Here." She flung something at him, small and hard. "Will you return my property now, Curufinwë? For a man who left his wife to chase after stolen gems, you care little for the jewelry of others!"

Curufinwë fumbled with the object, nearly missing it as she tossed it to him. When he held it on his open palm, his heart dropped. Quilla, or someone she knew, had melted down the gorgeous ring he'd spent weeks forging specifically for her.

It had been of silver, with a black diamond the size of her knuckle symbolizing his undying love, wrought as delicately as if it were thread and engraved with their wedding vows. Now, it was flat disk of silver with a lump in the middle, the diamond completely obscured. His love utterly rejected.

"Keep it," Quilla said in disdain, turning her back on him. "I have it shoved in a drawer somewhere, most of the time. I won't miss it—just as I do not miss you."

This rejection hurt far more than the first. Utterly crushed, Curufinwë wept silently, falling to his knees upon the ground. He heard Quilla walk away, unmoved, but the shadow of Ezellë still hovered above him.

"I'll take your ring," she said flatly. "Unless you want to destroy it as she did."

"I cannot," he rasped. "Ezellë—you still love him. Do you not?"

She flinched. "I—do not presume to know my heart, Fëanárion."

He raised his head, proud as he could muster. "You say that like it is a thing of evil," he challenged. "Once you were as proud as I to bear that name. Ezellë Tecnyarindë Fëanáriel, wife of Kanafinwë. I know you still write under that name. You may damn the house of Fëanáro with your books, but you still carry our legacy."

"Tyelpë will be more sympathetic to your misery," Ezellë said, but her voice shook. He had struck a chord with her; bitterly, he recognized that his silver tongue had not been dulled by the years. "But then, he has always been trusting. It is perhaps his greatest failing."

Curufinwë scrambled to his feet. "Don't speak of my son that way," he spat.

"I can speak of him however I wish," Ezellë shot back. "He is here now, you know. Quilla can forgive him anything, but there was little he did wrong other than follow his father into foolish exile."

"Can I speak with him?" Curufinwë asked, more desperate than he wished he was.

"Give me the ring, and I'll tell you where he is," Ezellë offered, reaching out her hand.

Curufinwë closed his fist around his wedding band. "No," he said. "I know where he'll be. And I cannot return this ring. To do so would be to renounce my love, and that I cannot do, no matter what Quilla is capable of."

Ezellë sighed, her green eyes more sad than angry now. "If you must," she murmured. She pointed toward a building some ways away from the main house, but Curufinwë didn't need her direction. He stood straight, and strode toward the forges.

Tyelperinquar was there as he expected, lying passed out on his desk. He snored like he had when he was a child, his long dark hair splayed across his face. Sketches of designs—a pulley system, a blocky shield in the dwarvish fashion, an iron grate—were scattered across the desk, some half-concealed by his sleeping body.

Curufinwë could not help but smile. Tyelpë was so much like Fëanáro in some ways. His complexion was darker, his build almost as large as Tyelkormo, but unlike Curvo's careful organization, Tyelpë had always taken after Fëanáro in his scattered messiness. Curufinwë could have just walked into his father's workshop.

Well, not exactly. In here, there were no weapons to be found. No jewelry, either. It seemed Tyelpë was just as conscious of his ancestry, and determined to avoid the downfalls of his kin. And perhaps jewelry had been ruined for him by Sauron and the Rings of Power.

Curufinwë wandered around the forge, trying not to disturb whatever works in progress Tyelpë was in the middle of. He let his son sleep; he knew what it was like to work through exhaustion.

An hour later, as he leafed through a sketchbook in one of the back corners of Tyelpë's forge, he heard commotion in the main room and the sound of clanging metal. Tyelpë swore loudly, borrowing one of Finrod's favorite curses before devolving into a mess of various languages from Quenya to Sindarin to...was that Khuzdul? Curufinwë knew he had been friends with dwarves, but so had he, and he had never picked anything up.

Curufinwë took a deep breath, gathering all his courage. He stood, walking over to the where the noise was coming from: Tyelpë had dropped a hammer on his own foot, and grumbled as he leaned down to pick it up, nursing his toes.

"Let me get that," Curufinwë said softly, taking the hammer from Tyelpë's hand and setting it neatly on his workbench. "You know, if you kept yourself organized, this wouldn't be a problem."

Tyelpë let him take the tool without any thought—they'd had this exchange countless times before, gentle bickering as they settled into the rhythm of work, often assisting Fëanáro himself—but then he froze. He turned around, dark eyes wide and stormy.

"You!" he exclaimed. "What—how dare you—"

Curufinwë trembled as he stood before his son. "Tyelpë," he began, but Tyelpë cut him off with a fierce embrace. He was lifted up into Tyelpë's powerful arms, again bewildered how such a giant lad had come from he and Quilla's slightness, and began to weep as he held on just as tightly.

Just as quick as it had begun, the hug was over. Tyelpë stepped back like Curufinwë's touch burned, his mouth hanging open. Curvo saw his mind whirring behind those still-wide eyes, and decided to jump in before Tyelpë could decide he was angry.

"Tyelpë, it's so good to see you," he said. "I've missed you so much—you know that's not something I'd say lightly. I almost didn't come here, especially after... I spoke to your mother for the first time since—since we left. I'm sure you can guess how that went. But I wanted to see you, to say—I don't know what to say. To say that—that I am sorry, I suppose, for all the pain I put you through, and for all the pain you endured because you were—you were a better person than I was. Than I am."

Tyelpë looked at him like he was a ghost. For all Curufinwë knew, in that moment he could be. He sat down heavily in his chair, pulling his hair back into a ponytail, blinking rapidly as he thought.

"You think..." Tyelpë cleared his throat, then tried again. "You think that is enough? You come back here, after a decade of doing nothing to make amends, say you're sorry, and think that means I can forgive you for everything?"

Curufinwë looked down at his shoes. "No," he said. "But I wanted you to know. Your mother wouldn't even listen. I hoped you would, even if you didn't want to accept it."

Tyelpë narrowed his eyes. "Are you reading my mind?" he accused. "Are you—oh. Yes. This is a dream." He chuckled, relaxing slightly. "I'm still asleep. Irmo, this is very clever of you, you almost had me for a moment. Please, release me, I think I'm ready to wake."

"You're not asleep and you know it, Tyelpë," Curufinwë said tiredly. "I'm truly here."

"Alright, I'm awake," Tyelpë assented. "But I still don't think you're Curufinwë Atarinkë. Which Maia are you? Some servant of Sauron who escaped? Or a minion of the Valar, come to test my loyalties yet again?"

"It's _me_," Curvo insisted. "Tyelpë, come on. Stop this."

"Then why are you acting like you're remorseful?" Tyelpë shot back. "My father would never admit to any wrongdoing, let alone _apologize_. You may look like him, but I know you're not him."

Curufinwë slapped him. "Tyelpë!" he shouted. "I know you're no fool. If you're going to tell me how much you hate me, I've given you the perfect opportunity."

Tyelpë flinched and rubbed his cheek. "It really _is_ you," he whispered. "When...when Annatar tried to fool me, he was too kind. Only you are a bastard enough to do that, you son of a bitch."

"Don't insult my mother like that," Curvo warned, unable to stop himself from smiling.

Tyelpë smirked back at him. "I was referencing your father."

Curufinwë laughed. "That's my son. You're a real Fëanorian."

Tyelpë grabbed him in another embrace, then released him with an ungentle punch to the arm. "Now _that_ is an insult. I spend my entire life escaping your legacy, and now you hoist it back upon me?"

He joked, but there was a sincerity behind his words. Curufinwë pulled up another chair and sat, looking at Tyelpë with serious eyes.

"I meant it, when I said I don't expect forgiveness," he said. "I'm sure you've heard what Tyelko and I did in Avorndor. Well, I imagine political forgiveness is easier than the personal kind. I wouldn't know; no one's given me the second kind."

Tyelpë sighed heavily. "Then let me be the first," he said heavily. "I am tired of hating you, Ata. Ammë isn't, but I am. I know why you did what you did."

"Thank you," Curufinwë said, his voice gruff. "Do you—want to talk about it?"

"Not now." Tyelpë stood. "Pass me that hammer, again? Let's...do you want to work together, for a bit?"

Wordlessly, Curufinwë obeyed. This was different from before—this time, Tyelperinquar was the one who led, and he who assisted. But Curvo had fulfilled this role countless times, serving Fëanáro, and he fell into the rhythm of the work with ease.

"What are you making?" Curufinwë asked.

Tyelpë stuck a lump of metal beneath the flame. "Aunt Ezellë's gate is rusting," he said. "We're making new hinges."

"Couldn't she get someone else to do that?" Curvo wondered. "This is a step down from magic rings."

Tyelpë scowled, shooting him a glare. "I prefer this. Pass me those tongs."

Later, when they were resting as the metal cooled, Curufinwë thought to try again. "I did not mean to dismiss your current work," he said. "Only to ask why you do not continue in greater pursuits."

"The rings were my greatest failure, not my greatest work," Tyelpë said flatly. "They allowed Sauron's rise to power. I was a blind fool to trust Annatar. You would never have done such a thing."

"I would never have founded the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, either," Curufinwë countered. "And clearly, I did not survive into the Second Age to be offered such a choice. Tell me, then, what is your greatest creation, if not the rings? The Doors of Durin?"

A brief look of bittersweet fondness passed across Tyelpë's face. "No," he said softly. "Though—ha. It was a collaboration with the dwarves. With Narvi."

"I didn't know you worked with him more than once."

"_She_ was a member of the Mírdain," Tyelpë said. "That is how we became friends." He paused. "And—well." He tugged his hair out of its ponytail, bangs falling into his face. "Hardly anyone knew about _this_."

Curufinwë tilted his head. "I am intrigued," he said. "Come now, I'm your father. You can tell me. I ask again: what do you believe is your greatest creation?"

Tyelperinquar was silent for a long time. Curvo could not look into his eyes, veiled by his hair, but he saw Tyelpë's fingers tapping his leg frantically. He was afraid.

"My daughter," he said at last, and Curvo's world tilted on its axis.

"Your..._daughter_?" he asked in a strained whisper. "You have a daughter? I'm—I'm a _grandfather_?"

"I _had_ a daughter." Tyelpë looked up, tears welling in his eyes. "Ata, I did poorly by her. I swore, I swore I would be a better father than—than—" He grimaced.

"Than me," Curufinwë finished, softening the blow by landing it himself.

"But I wasn't," Tyelpë admitted. "I...no one knows. I've only told Ammë, and not the details. Not even Grandmother Nerdanel knows. But keeping it a secret—"

"You can tell me, tell me everything," Curvo urged. "Tyelpë, I was a poor father to you in Middle-earth. Let me be a better one now, and I am sure you can do the same. If your daughter is here, in Aman, I'm sure—"

"It's not that simple," Tyelpë interrupted. "You heard what I said about Narvi, did you not?"

"I...yes?" Curufinwë didn't see how that was relevant.

"My daughter, she lived with her mother for the most part." Tyelpë gave him a meaningful look. "It was not safe for her to be seen with me. We had to keep her heritage a secret."

"And Narvi helped you hide her?" Curvo guessed. "She was a true friend. But then, most dwarves are."

"Narvi was her mother," Tyelpë confessed. "She was my wife."

Curufinwë had thought nothing could possibly have shocked him more than learning that Tyelpë had a child. He had been wrong.

"A—dwarf?" he said, bewildered. "Tyelpë, are you...you're being serious. Dear Valar. Námo's nostrils! You married a _dwarf_?"

"It was something of an accident," Tyelpë admitted. "I know the Laws and Customs are not...exact, especially outside Aman, but she and I...well, we'd been dancing around it for far too long and when we finally came together neither of us wanted it to be the end. She told me about dwarvish customs, about the braids I'd given her, and I told her about Valarin marriage. In a way we were both already wed to each other, without knowing it. We decided to keep it that way."

"But a dwarf is mortal," Curvo murmured.

"Not the same way the race of men are mortal." Tyelpë shrugged. "Aulë has a place in the Halls set aside for them. When I died, I could even visit from time to time. I almost didn't come back, for her sake, but she told me she'd refuse to speak to me if I didn't come back to my family." He laughed shortly. "Not _your_ side, of course. Well, except for Grandmother Nerdanel."

"And your daughter?" Curufinwë said the word reverently, awed by the thought of his own son being a parent. "Does she count as a peredhel, if her mortal half is dwarvish?"

"Thyra outlived me," Tyelpë said. "But yes—and she chose to be with her mother's people. I expected no less. She always took to Narvi's side more, and our relationship was...strained."

"Thyra," Curufinwë breathed. "Is it a dwarvish name?"

"Yes, though not her secret name," Tyelpë admitted. "That was Narvi's to give, and Thyra's to share. She never did tell me."

"What was her ataressë?" Curvo needed to know.

"It's not Curufinwë!" Tyelpë chuckled. "I let her be called after her mother's choice, as I was—"

"Not for lack of trying," Curufinwë tutted. "But I know the difficulties of being a Junior. Does she not have an ataressë, then?"

"I named her Maldholen," Tyelpë said. He lifted his hand. "I am Tyelperinquar—silver fist. She was Maltahurin, in the Quenya form—golden secret. Better than I, and yet not mine by right. No one knew Narvi and I were wed, and Narvi never told her kin who Thyra's father was."

"She is dead, then?" Curufinwë asked. "I cannot meet her?"

"She perished defending Narvi's kin from Durin's Bane, after fighting for mine in the Last Alliance," Tyelpë said quietly. "A hero to both her peoples."

"The dwarves say that when the Final Battle is won, and Arda made again, there will be a place for them in it," Curvo said, taking his son's hand. "You can see them both again. Eru is merciful; after all, he let my brothers and I return."

"She tried to save me from Annatar, you know," Tyelpë said suddenly. "She saw through him right away. Others were suspicious, but she...she said—" He hung his head. "She said she knew that the only one I loved was her mother. That Annatar was using my grief—Narvi had only passed a decade prior. She was right, but I didn't want to listen."

Curufinwë didn't know what to say. He would have told Tyelperinquar something similar, and no doubt have been met with the same denial. He couldn't tell Tyelpë that it was alright, that he had done enough, because that wasn't true. It wasn't true for himself, either.

Instead of speaking, he rested his head on Tyelpë's shoulder. He remembered when Tyelpë was young, not quite grown out of being a child, and even though he was bigger than his father he would still snuggle up with him. Curufinwë smiled, and a thought struck him.

"Tyelpë," he murmured, "I am not as great a smith as Fëanáro or yourself. Nor am I as great a man as you or him."

"Ata—" Tyelpë began to protest, but Curvo shushed him.

"It is the truth," he said matter-of-factly. "I spent centuries denying my faults; now, I embrace them. But despite everything I have done and what I haven't made, I know that my greatest creation rivals the Silmarils nonetheless."

Tyelpë started. "I knew the Oath had been dissolved, but Ata! Truly you do not think that! What could such a thing be?"

Curufinwë met his eyes with a smile and echoed Tyelpë's earlier words in a simple, heartfelt confession: "My son."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor/Narvi is a blessed ship, and fem!Narvi is a blessed concept. (I'm a sucker for elf/dwarf relationships...) The idea of them having a kid is very fun, and I was excited to include Thyra in this story, if only briefly. This is another one of those situations where I have a lot of ideas about this character but not enough time to elaborate - I've said it before and I'll say it again, maybe I'll write a fic about her someday!
> 
> "Thyra" is a Norse name meaning "thunder." I explained in-text what her father name means, but one more time: "Maldholen" is Sindarin for "golden secret," and the Quenya form of the name is "Maltahurin." My translations/reverse-Sindarizations aren't perfect, and I'm no linguist, but I do enjoy finding these names :)
> 
> [I posted this fic all at once, but rest assured I would be happy to receive comments on more than just the final chapter. Thanks for reading and commenting!]


	9. Moryo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moryo comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place immediately after the end of chapter 3, Moryo's first chapter, and probably a month or two after chapter 8. After this, the timelines re-converge.

Moryo did not announce his arrival to the mainland, nor did he send word ahead to his brothers that he was returning to their villa outside of Tirion. He sailed across the strait to Aman, docked his ship in a small harbor, and rode all night until he arrived. He was grateful for the exhaustion of the day-long journey, for without it he would not have been able to sleep at all that night. But instead of lying awake thinking about his child, he collapsed into his old bed and immediately passed out. He would track down Tyelpë—and allow his oncoming existential crisis to hit him—in the morning.

He woke to the smell of cooking sausage, his stomach rumbling. Eager to eat and to see his family again, Moryo dressed and made his way to the dining room.

To his faint surprise, all of his brothers were present as the villa. He had received messages from them now and then along with the occasional visit, but he had assumed they would have gone their separate ways by now. Still, it made sense they all stuck together. Even without Fëanáro to hold their family together, it was them against the world. He figured that Nerdanel may also have had something to do with it.

Findekáno was there, resting his head on Nelyo's shoulder sleepily. Moryo stared: he knew they had stopped hiding their relationship some time ago, but it was still a surprise to see such open affection from a couple that had so long been secretive. Tyelko stood by the fire, helping their mother cook; the Ambarussa each had a friend with them, another set of twins, if Moryo was not mistaken. To his astonishment, Pityo sat on one of the other twins' lap, their hands intertwined—and were those betrothal rings on their fingers?

But perhaps the most surprising thing of all was the presence of Tyelperinquar, the very elf Moryo had come here to find. He had thought that it would be quite the task to convince Tyelpë to speak with him, after he had rejected his father's family so thoroughly, but here he sat beside Curvo with their heads pressed together over some diagram. A new invention, no doubt, and Moryo wondered what grand idea could possibly have drawn father and son together again.

Nerdanel saw him first. She turned around to pass a plate of steaming sausage to her boys, called out a welcome to him, and went back to cooking. But as soon as she said, "Moryo, come join us!" the room fell quiet, and everyone stared.

"Moryo, you're back!" Telvo cried, leaping up to embrace him. "You sneaky bastard, how'd you get in without us noticing?"

"I came in late last night," Moryo explained, greeting each of his brothers (and Findekáno) in turn. Nerdanel came last, but she hugged him the longest, and he smiled at the woodsmoke smell that was so uniquely her.

"Well, this saves us a letter, I suppose," Pityo said merrily. "We were just about to write you and beg that you come home for the wedding!"

"Wedding!" Moryo looked at him, eyes wide. "So those _are_ betrothal rings I see. Customs stay the same, I suppose?"

"For the most part," Nelyo drawled. "Finno and I are still waiting, but we've given Amras and Elladan our blessing to wed before us."

"Elladan," Moryo echoed, looking at the man who held his little brother's hand. "I've heard that name before."

Elladan's brother came to stand beside him. "We are the sons of Elrond," he explained. "I am Elrohir, his twin."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Elladan said, reaching out a hand.

Moryo ignored it, opting for an embrace instead. After a moment of surprise, he reciprocated.

"If Pityo loves you, that's good enough for me," he said firmly. "And the rest of the family seems to like you, too."

"They like me better," Elrohir joked, and Elladan kicked him. Elrohir jumped out of the way with a laugh.

"Married, hm?" Moryo murmured to Nelyo as he sat down at the table. "I never thought he'd move on from Thennes."

"A lot has happened since you left," Nelyo said, quiet enough so the couple wouldn't hear. "Curvo and Tyelko made amends with the Sindar and Melian's line—"

Moryo scoffed. "They did not!" he exclaimed. Despite himself, a prick of fear ignited within him at the mention of Melian; he remembered Ilfrin's advice and took a deep breath before continuing. "The Maiahíni? The ones who so destroyed us?"

"And us them," Nelyo reminded him. "Yes, it's true."

"And Tyelpë's here!" Moryo shook his head. "Next I'll hear that Curvo and Quilla have made amends, and Ezellë comes over for tea every other week."

Nelyo winced. Finno, on the other side of him, shook his head. "Things haven't changed _that_ much," he admitted. "Curvo did try to see Quilla again, but she wanted none of it. Tyelpë, though...he was more successful there."

"Is there some story behind Pityo and Elladan?" Moryo wondered.

Nelyo launched into an explanation of how Thennes had saved Dior's twins, and how Pityo had accompanied Curvo and Tyelko to Avorndor to tell the tale. "I think that was when he let her go," he said; "it gave him closure." Ambarussa met Elrond's twins soon afterward, in the middle of a spat between them, and "things went from there," as Findekáno added in.

"What about Elrohir and Telvo?" Moryo inquired, waving a half-eaten piece of sausage at the other two.

"They're the best of friends," Nelyo said, "but neither are the romantic type, especially not for each other."

Moryo nodded, understanding perfectly. "I've missed you all," he admitted. "Tol Eressëa was good for me, but I'm glad to be back."

"I've got to be off," Telvo announced, glancing out the window to judge the sun's position in the sky. "The big vote is only a month away, and I've got to talk to my party."

"Good luck with that," Findekáno said with a shake of his head. "Drop in a good word for us if you can?"

"Of course," Telvo agreed. "Goodbye. Moryo, we'll take you out hunting sometime when I get back, alright? It's good to see you."

"Of course," Moryo agreed, though hunting was not his favorite activity. He would humor the twins and Tyelko if it meant spending time with them.

Telvo left, Elrohir going with him, and soon Pityo and Elladan excused themselves for some lover's tryst. When they were gone, Moryo turned back to Nelyo. "What's that about a vote?"

"Oh my!" Nelyo laughed. "I nearly forgot to mention it. Amrod has become something of a politician, of late. People very nearly seem to forget he's a Fëanárion!"

"He's pushed for a vote to take place," Findekáno explained. "The faction existed already, had for decades, but no one took them seriously until he voiced his support. They've agreed to hold a vote among anyone who attends the council, to see if the people do indeed want an elected leader."

Moryo nodded, impressed. "And is he to be that elected leader?"

"They're not that far yet," Nelyo said. "And even if it happens, it's not as if he'll be replacing Arafinwë and the nobility entirely."

"Still, it's exciting," Findekáno added.

"I rather think Ata would have approved," Moryo agreed.

"Even if he or Grandfather Finwë were the king?" Findekáno asked.

Moryo shrugged, exchanging a look with Nelyo. "He wasn't a tyrant."

"Enough politics!" Tyelko exclaimed, interrupting their conversation. "Moryo! What brings you back at long last? You didn't even warn us you were coming home!"

"I..." Moryo trailed off, unable to decide if he was ready for them to know yet. "I met Gil-galad," he said. Tyelpë looked up, his eyes widening, and Moryo met his gaze. "He was not happy to see me."

Findekáno frowned. "That's odd. I helped raise the lad, briefly, you know. I certainly tried not to instill an anti-Fëanorian bias within him."

"His bias isn't anti-Fëanorian, it's anti-Caranthir," Moryo said moodily. "He resents me for my inaction in an area I had no knowledge of."

"You can't really blame him for it, can you?" Tyelpë said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. Moryo stared at his nephew warily, conscious that Tyelpë knew Gil-galad much better than he.

"You two are having a conversation in a language the rest of us aren't familiar with," Curvo said. "Translate. How did you unwittingly wrong him, Moryo? The Kinslayings?"

"No," Tyelpë answered for him. "Rýndil."

The name of his child hit Moryo in his heart. For all he had learned of their existence only yesterday, he already felt more of a connection to them than he thought was possible.

"Who is Rýndil?" Nerdanel asked, leaning against the table. "If Moryo won't elaborate, will you, Tyelpë?"

"No, I'll explain," Moryo snapped. "Rýndil is...was... Apparently, they were my child."

A heavy silence fell across the room. Curvo's mouth flopped open, and Findekáno gasped softly.

"What?" Nerdanel exclaimed. "Moryo, you're a father?" She laid a hand on her heart. "Valar! I have another grandchild?" Tears budding in her eyes, she swept him up in an embrace. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Because no one told _me_," Moryo grumbled, shaking his mother away. "I only discovered their existence yesterday!"

"But Tyelpë..." Curvo turned to his son accusingly. "_You_ knew you had a cousin?! And you never mentioned this?!"

Tyelpë sighed. "There are a dozen reasons I didn't tell you. One being that by the time I met them, you and I were not on speaking terms, and then you were dead. Besides, it wasn't my secret to reveal. _Especially_ since Rýndil was in a...unique situation." He gave his father a meaningful look.

"What do you mean by that?" Tyelko asked in confusion, but Nelyo seemed to catch on.

"Who was the mother who kept this from you?" he asked.

Moryo gritted his teeth, bracing himself for ridicule from his brothers. "Haleth," he admitted.

It took them a moment to place the name, but when they did— "Haleth?!" Tyelko demanded. "Oh, Moryo! What did you _do_?"

"Who is Haleth?" Nerdanel interrupted. "Some Sinda lady? Elwë's kin? Forgive me if I don't know every single person who lived in Beleriand."

"Worse than that," Curvo groaned. "She's _mortal_."

Nerdanel sat down heavily. "Oh, Moryo," she murmured, shaking her head. "You poor boy."

Even Nelyo laughed. "I can't believe it," he said. "I would have thought we'd have heard about that!"

"Haleth liked to play games," Moryo snapped. "Apparently, this was one of them. It's not as if we were in love, or anything ridiculous like that."

"Don't knock it 'til you try it," Findekáno teased.

"I have, and I will," Moryo grumbled. "Yes, I slept with Haleth. But I didn't know she had my _child_. But apparently Rýndil knew who _I_ was, and told their lover. Oh, yes—their lover was Gil-galad, before he was king. Our family tree gets even more complicated."

"Wait until you hear about my contribution," Tyelpë quipped. Now everyone turned to stare at him, but he only laughed grimly. "I'll tell that story later, but it's just as much a scandal, if not more so."

"I came back to talk to you, Tyelpë," Moryo said, crossing his arms. "Gil-galad said Rýndil knew you. You were cousins. I—" He paused to stop himself from betraying his emotion. "I thought you could tell me what they were like. And...where they are now. Gil-galad can't find them anywhere."

Tyelpë went quiet. He looked down in his lap, before murmuring, "I can tell you about them. But...Rýndil died in the Third Kinslaying. Gil and I were on Balar, but they were spending the day in Arvenien." He glanced around. "I'm not positive on the details, but the rumor is that they killed one of our uncles. And that another uncle killed them in return."

Nelyo went white as a sheet beneath his gold paint. "Dear Valar...was it me?"

"I remember what Ambarussa said about that day," Curvo said with a frown. "Telvo died first, beheaded by that Gondolin-lord, Egalmoth. Pityo killed Egalmoth after that. He didn't know the elf—peredhel, I suppose—who killed him. He only remembers they had dark hair."

Moryo's hand went to his own dark locks. "It—could have been anyone," he muttered. The idea of his brothers killing his child was awful, but the thought of Rýndil killing Pityo? somehow, that was worse.

"It was them," Tyelpë confirmed grimly. "I'm sure of it."

"Somehow it's worse that I don't know if it was me who killed them," Nelyo said softly. "My own nibling..."

"It wasn't a quick death," Tyelpë said. He winced. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be cruel. I only know what Gil told me—he held them as they died, hours later. He still blames himself for being too late. And Moryo for not being a good father. He thinks Rýndil would have lived if you all had known who they were."

"They wouldn't have," Nelyo said miserably. "Not if they stood against us. With the Oath driving me mad, the others consumed by it in their own way..."

Moryo knew. He knew in his bones that had he been at Sirion, and not fallen in Doriath, he could very well have been the one to land that fatal blow. Even upon his own child. Had not Fëanáro nearly slain Telvo on the ships? It was called a Kinslaying for a reason.

"But they were a peredhel," Nerdanel said, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Rýndil was half mortal, yes, but also half elven. Are they still in Mandos, if they are not in Aman? Dior was allowed another life. Surely Rýndil..."

"I didn't meet them in Mandos," Tyelperinquar said softly. "But one of our mutual friends, who died at the same time, told me—" He looked down. "She told me that Rýndil had passed on, to receive the Gift of Men. That they chose their mother's path, her people over ours."

Moryo had dreaded that news, dreaded the confirmation that his child was lost to him forever before they had even been found. And yet somehow, hearing it confirmed destroyed him in a way he hadn't expected. He broke apart, sobbing, and even his family surrounding him could not comfort him.

From the doorway came a soft voice: "I know how you feel."

Moryo looked up, blinking away his tears. "Elladan?" He didn't know when Pityo had come back into the room, his fiancé trailing behind him, but they were both there.

"My sister chose the same path," Elladan explained. "Arwen Undómiel. And my uncle also, Elros Tar-Minyatur. My family knows this pain. You can come to us, if you wish."

"There's someone else, also," Tyelpë added suddenly. He wiped his own eyes dry. "Aegnor."

Moryo shook his head. "I didn't love Haleth the way he loved Andreth," he rasped. "Surely it is not the same."

"I think Aikanáro will be grateful for anyone who is sympathetic," Nelyo said. "His own kin...they do not understand."

"It's not just that," Tyelpë said. "Gil-galad is his son."

"I thought Gil-galad was Orodreth's son," Tyelko said with a frown. "When we were in Nargothrond, that was the story."

"Andreth could not raise an elvish son, and Aegnor could not claim a mortal child born out of wedlock," Tyelpë explained. "They gave him to Orodreth, who was in the child-rearing time of life. Gil is a peredhel, much like Rýndil. That is how they first bonded, being the forgotten peredhel of noble houses."

"Gil-galad will not speak to me," Moryo muttered. "He made that much clear."

"But Aegnor will," Tyelpë pressed.

Moryo laughed shortly. "I think you forget that the sons of Arafinwë have little love for me."

"Angaráto, maybe," Findekáno admitted, "but not Findaráto. Nor Aikanáro, I would think."

"I will go with you," Tyelpë offered. "I wish to speak with him as well. I think we fathers of half-elves could benefit from one another's company."

"You _too_?" Pityo demanded. "Aulë's hammer! I never thought mortal women were so alluring!"

"Don't judge my son like that," Curvo snapped. Moryo's lip twitched, and he exchanged a look with his brother. Now that he knew he, too, was a father, he could understand Curvo's protectiveness a little better.

Tyelpë rose to his feet. "You tell them the story, Ata," he said. He beckoned Moryo closer. "Come, uncle. Let's go speak to our cousin."

"You can find Aikanáro in Lórien," Findekáno informed them. "He was reborn not long before you all, and his griefs are still heavy on his mind."

"Lórien?" Moryo froze. Lórien. Lórien! Even after years of working through his fears with Ilfrin, the thought of willingly entering the realm of the Fëanturi still brought him pause.

Tyelpë took his hand. "Yes, Lórien," he said firmly. "We can visit Grandmother Míriel."

Moryo took a deep breath. "Yes," he agreed, taking a step forward. He was stronger now, more certain of his own place in the world, and ready to face his fears. Besides, Míriel had begged him to visit her again. "Yes, that would be nice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to include an initial conversation with Aegnor, but I ran out of time and inspiration. Maybe in some other fic...  
***ETA 5/30/20*** Wonder of wonders - I actually wrote that fic!! Hurray!! You can read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24459334)!!
> 
> re: Amrod running for office: I'm a little uncomfortable with a noble being the first person to be elected, but then again, historically that is likely to be the first step toward democracy. Anyway, royalty and feudal structures are fun, and this isn't story with a serious anti-monarchy theme (although lest there be any doubt, I am firmly pro-representative government).
> 
> One last time: If you're interested in Caranthir, Haleth, and Rýndil, keep your eyes on [Unanticipated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18197246/chapters/43045235) \- I /will/ be finishing that fic at some point, and while the story won't exactly fit with the one I'm telling here, it will be about these characters. Maybe you'll find out which brother killed Rýndil there...  
***ETA 3/19/2020*** Once again, see more of (an alternate version of) Rýndil in "[Cause and Consequence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23223799/chapters/55601719)"!
> 
> [I posted this fic all at once, but rest assured I would be happy to receive comments on more than just the final chapter. Thanks for reading and commenting!]


	10. Tyelkormo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyelkormo hunts again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [CW: This chapter contains a not-completely-healthy sexual relationship between Celegorm and Oromë. That aspect of their relationship is not the focus of the story, but it is there.]
> 
> Disclaimer that I KNOW that the use of formal/informal speech in this chapter is incorrect. I did this intentionally - I'm aware that within Tolkien's own writing, he uses "thou" v. "you" in the ~correct~ way, which is backwards from the way we use it today (at least within the religious contexts in which I was raised), but I wanted to create a specific atmosphere with the way the Valar talk. I'm not a linguist, don't @ me!

He was on a hunt with the twins, both sets of them, not long after the wedding. Amras and Elladan stole away from time to time, leaving Tyelkormo with Amrod and Elrohir; he didn't begrudge them their happiness, and it was easier to track a beast with three focused people than five distracted ones.

Right now, however, all five of the hunters were present both physically and mentally. They were on the trail of a wild boar, and were nearing the end of the chase. Tyelkormo could hear its grunts as it rustled through the grass, searching for roots to eat. Its stink filled his nostrils, and he breathed in slowly, preparing for the kill.

He nodded to his brothers; two arrows were notched to two bows. Elladan and Elrohir spread out silently, knives drawn, ready to pounce upon the boar once it was crippled by the arrow-shots. Tyelkormo himself readied his spear, preparing to drive point through the animal's skull.

They waited for his command. Tyelkormo watched as the grass trembled, the boar raising its head with a mouth full of tubers, chewing loudly.

Just another moment more...

The boar swished its tail, turning away from its pursuers, and Tyelko raised his fist in the air and clenched it. _Now._

But his command came just a second too late, for the arrow that soared through the air and into the boar's flank was not from either Amrod or Amras: it was far too large, shining with a holy light, and at its prick the boar screamed and fell dead to the ground as a wave of force rippled across its body.

The other arrows flew uselessly over the boar's carcass, landing in the grasses. Elladan and Elrohir raised their blades uncertainly, while Amrod and Amras turned to Tyelkormo in confusion. But Tyelko knew exactly what had happened, and he scowled, rising to his full height and staring, spear stuck into the ground, in the direction where the archer must stand.

"Oromë!" he called. "You cheat! That was our kill!"

"Tyelko!" hissed Elrohir. "Do not speak to a _Vala_ like that!"

"If it even _is_ Oromë," Elladan muttered.

But Tyelkormo did not stand down. He dared not approach the fallen boar, especially as an aura of silver light illuminated the beast, but he would not be cowed by Oromë. Not this time.

From the depths of the forest emerged a massive white wolf, its fangs gleaming. Tyelkormo stared it down unflinchingly.

"Where is your master?" he demanded.

The wolf laughed, rearing on its hind legs. "Turcafinwë Tyelkormo, you are irreverent as always," she growled. Her furs melted away into a wolfskin raiment, yellow eyes still gleaming like a beast. She loped like an animal, circling their hunting party with hungry eyes.

"Ñarmotar," Tyelkormo said without so much as an incline of the head to the Maia. "With you around, Oromë cannot be far behind. Where is he?"

Ñarmotar gave a low chuckle, more of a growl than a laugh. "He is the wind in the night. He is the bite of the frost. He is—"

"The chill of the morning, the cry of the wolf, the blood of the prey," Tyelkormo interrupted, rattling off the phrases she was so fond of without even a hint of reverence. "Those are but manifestations, as we both well know. A Maia of Oromë should know where her master is, surely."

"I am here," said a thundering voice, and there he was: Oromë, in all his glory, clad in pelts that shifted pattern as you blinked, massive horns protruding from his head, wild hair running down his back in a glowing mane. He smiled, and fangs protruded from his mouth, but it was the endless silver of his eyes that sent a chill down Tyelkormo's spine.

Behind him he heard his four companions falling to their knees. Tyelkormo, too, felt the pressure to kneel and bend before the Vala who had once been his master, but he stood firm, unwilling to bow once again.

Oromë snapped his fingers, and Ñarmotar whined, falling down on all fours and shifting back into her wolf form. She lifted the boar by the scruff of its neck, turning to lock eyes with Tyelkormo with sadistic humor gleaming from the yellow of her gaze, before bounding away with the fresh-caught meat.

"Rise," said Oromë in a whisper like the wind on leaves, a far cry from the thunder of his entrance. "Fëanárions of the hunt, it is good to see thee again. I have been wandering the southernmost reaches of Endórë, but I heard of thy return and thought to welcome thee back to this mortal coil."

"Thank you, Lord," murmured Amrod, his eyes still downcast; and "Our thanks, Master," echoed Amras.

"And Elrondions, it is a pleasure to watch thee in the hunt," Oromë continued. "I have observed thee from afar, and it pleases me to see the skill with which thou dost work. Come, join my party on some fine day, and my Maiar and I will lend thee our strength. Then only wilt thou know the true joys of the hunt."

"We would be honored, Lord," Elladan agreed.

Tyelkormo sniffed. "Don't get too power-drunk," he warned them. "Ambarussa will agree when I say that it is hard to recover from such a trip."

"Yes, be careful, love," Amras said quietly. "But the lord Oromë is correct...the experience is something else."

Tyelkormo remembered the feeling: so caught up in the one-minded task of tracking that he forgot to eat, forgot to rest, forgot to breathe. The strength he felt slaying beasts with a single blow, his fëa mingling at times with the spirit of Huan until they were but one beast with two mouths and he knew the taste of fear in his prey. He would come away with a bloodied mouth, teeth filled with the throat-meat of a stag, and fall exhausted to the ground. Ai, such power was so dizzying that he could forget he was an elf and not one of Oromë's shape-shifting Maiar.

But such a power came at a cost of more than just his strength: the thrill was all in the chase, in the kill—there was no _fight_. He could have shot that silver arrow, killed the boar in one blow, but where then was the grapple? the danger? the moment where predator and prey locked eyes and understood one another in the deepest, most primal sense? That was lost in the frenzy of blood or the swiftness of slaughter, and it was perhaps the part of the hunt Tyelkormo most cherished.

Oromë watched him, those silver eyes unblinking, and Tyelkormo knew he knew his thoughts. "Ai, my lost disciple," he said softly. "Wilt thou not join me again? I would extend mine offer to thee and thy brothers also, if thou wish it."

"Ambarussa can speak for themselves," Tyelkormo said slowly, "but as for _my_self... Were I to hunt with you again, Oromë, I would do it with my own skill and my own mind."

"A test, Tyelkormo?" Oromë raised his head, his fangs gleaming. "Dost thou think thyself better than me?"

Tyelkormo would not give Oromë the satisfaction of reverence, but he was no fool. "No," he admitted. "But my own time in Endórë has taught me the fulfilment of using my own strengths and not those of others."

Oromë tilted his head. "Didst thou learn this from losing thy faithful hound?"

Tyelkormo flinched. "In part," he said in a low rumble. "Lord..." He scowled at his slip back into his old habits, but pressed forward: "Lord, I never meant for Huan's death. But he died bravely, and..." He looked up hopefully, though he knew in his heart of hearts that such hope was unfounded. "I admit, a part of me found comfort in the thought of him loping alongside you in Valinórë once again."

"Alas," Oromë sighed, "Huan was no Maia, but a lesser spirit like unto the eagles of Manwë... Slain, he rises not again."

"I bet Ñarmotar was furious," Amrod murmured. "Did she not raise him from a pup?"

"She is my most faithful servant, but she doth indeed harbor a grudge against thee for thy part in Huan's fate," Oromë admitted. "I sent her from here for that reason."

A hawk cried above them. At a wave from Oromë, it soared down to land upon one of his mighty antlers. Oromë's all-seeing gaze turned from the elves for a moment as he conversed in squawks with the hawk; after a few moments, it leapt into the air and soared away.

"Ñarmotar has caught the scent of the boar's mate," Oromë said. "Wouldst thou care to join us now? I cannot promise the revelries you once had, Fëanárions, but it is true that I robbed thee of thy kill."

Not even Tyelko could could turn the offer. With no danger of power-lending from the Vala or his Maiar, Tyelkormo succumbed to the temptation of achieving the kill he so desired.

They followed Oromë into the depths of the forest, meeting again with Ñarmotar and many other Maiar in the shapes of beasts and elves alike. Great hounds, the kin of Huan, roamed alongside Ñarmotar and her pack of wolves; hawks like the one from afore soared ahead keeping watch. The elven hunters were absorbed into the party with ease, and despite himself Tyelkormo felt at home beneath Oromë's command.

The hunt for the boar's mate took several days, during which Tyelkormo nearly forgot all that had passed between he and Oromë, so caught up in the chase was he. His senses awakened from only the proximity to such feral Ainur, he slept little and drank the heady wines so favored by Ñarmotar, until he was so drunk off exhaustion and alcohol and a touch of Valarin magic that he found himself back in Oromë's arms in the middle of the night.

"Damn you," he growled as Oromë pushed him up against a tree. He felt the Vala's fangs nip at his neck, and Eru—! he couldn't stop a moan from escaping his lips, his body responding to the rough touch.

"My Tyelkormo," Oromë hissed, his voice smooth as snakeskin. "It has been too long..."

"Not long enough," Tyelkormo spat, writhing in Oromë's grasp. "Unhand me!"

He had to fight to escape, but Oromë made no move to force himself upon him. As soon as he was free, Tyelkormo felt blood rush to his head in anger, and quite on impulse he whirled around and slammed Oromë against the tree, fury and desire intermingled.

He could not deny the thrill that went through him as he beheld the Vala pinned to the tree, entirely at his mercy—of course such mercy was an illusion, one Oromë could break at any moment, but Tyelkormo had never felt so _powerful_.

"I could gut thee with my horns," Oromë murmured, staring deep, deep into Tyelko's eyes. "Slice thy stomach open with a flick of my claws. Tear thy throat out with one swift bite."

"But you won't," Tyelkormo said huskily.

Oromë laughed, a wild and fearsome sound. They were not far off from the camp for the night; Tyelkormo could hear the dogs and wolves play-fighting by the fire and Ñarmotar howling in the distance. In a tent close by he heard groans and cries, doubtless Amras and Elladan as caught up in the carnality of the hunt as he; somewhere near, he suspected Amrod and Elrohir sought out their own releases in their preferred and private manners.

"Nay, I will not," Oromë agreed. "Thou hast become feisty and fierce, Tyelkormo. Doth it please thee, to have a Vala at thy mercy?" His silver glance alighted upon Tyelkormo's groin, and Tyelko pressed his body nearer to him, letting the Vala feel his arousal.

"Is that an answer enough for you?" he demanded.

"The seasons have changed for us, I see," Oromë murmured. "Very well, I accept it. Take me as I once did thee, Tyelkormo, and we shall see if thy fury is stoked or abated."

* * *

Tyelkormo hunted often with Oromë from that night on, though he never again partook in the mingling of fëar in which he had once so delighted. _Control_ was the key to his pleasures now, whether that meant leading the hunt or chasing down Oromë himself; he knew the Vala only humored him, but the surge of power he felt in such a position gave him the confidence to seek his desires in other aspects of life.

Years passed, each marked with its own challenges and triumphs. His brothers pursued their own passions, with Curvo and Tyelpë returning to the crafting of jewelry, the Ambarussa splitting their time between Oromë's revelries and the Noldorin courts where Amrod promised to become the first elected governor of Tirion, and Moryo sailing between Tol Eressëa and the mainland as something of a messenger between divided kindreds. Nelyo took up painting, upon not only his body but other canvases as well.

Tyelkormo himself spent much time with Írissë and Lómion, making peace even with Turukáno, who along with Arakáno would occasionally join their hunting expeditions. The woods had always been a second home to him, but now, with the Sindar warily allowing him within the borders of their forest and Oromë submitting to his desires, Tyelko felt a king among the trees. Still, Írissë was quick to put him in his place, and Curvo's sharp tongue kept him humble.

Before they realized, nearly a century had passed from the time of their re-embodiment. At long last Nolofinwë and the courts, with Amrod's persuasion, agreed to set a date for the wedding of Findekáno and Maitimo. The houses of Fëanáro and Nolofinwë were to be united at long last, and strife between them buried. What Fëanáro, still confined within the Timeless Halls, would think of this development was beyond Tyelkormo's guess.

As the appointed time approached, Tyelkormo noticed the Ainur growing restless. Propositions to evict them from Tirion had long since died away, but an odd tension remained between the Eldar and the Ainur. The Valar were losing their long-held control over the elves, and while this freed them somewhat from governmental responsibility, it meant also that their power was threatened.

Oromë was not a god of much political interest, but he was the Vala that Tyelko knew best. Even he seemed distracted on their hunts together, speaking always with his hawk-Maia and Ñarmotar and other messengers, less enthusiastic when they made love. Tyelkormo turned more often now to Írissë for such bodily enjoyments, uncertain as how to deal with Oromë's sudden distance.

The matter did not become clearer even when Oromë spoke to him directly.

"I must leave thee for a time," he informed Tyelkormo. "Manwë sends me hither to Endórë on business that concerns thy kin, Tyelkormo."

"My kin?" Tyelkormo blinked. "As in...all Quendi, or _my_ kin, specifically?"

"Alas, I cannot say," Oromë said cryptically.

A tightness clenched Tyelkormo's heart. "Is there conflict? War? Have mortals ceased to treat with elves entirely?" _Or,_ he thought, _is it Kanafinwë..._ But he dared not mention his missing brother's name, for fear of his hesitant hope being destroyed.

"Thou shalt see," Oromë said. He drew his cloak of ever-changing pelts about him, silver eyes glinting. "All song becomes clear in time, my Tyelko."

"I am not yours," Tyelkormo snapped. Song? Did he refer to the Ainulindalë, or perhaps Kano's own melodies...?

Oromë smiled, baring his fangs. "Oh? Then perhaps I shall leave the leadership of the hunt to Ñarmotar alone in my absence, and not thee also."

Tyelkormo scowled. "Alright, I'm a little bit yours."

Oromë laughed, and before Tyelkormo could ask what was so amusing, he vanished into the shadows, leaving to tend to his business in Middle-earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ñarmotar is an OC; her name means “queen of wolves” in Quenya.
> 
> re: Tyelko and Oromë's homosexuality vs. previously established Valarin homophobia: I actually think that most of the Valar are fairly queer or else can't relate to concepts of gender and sex (Oromë has an idea of bodily pleasures and exercises his fana as such; he and Vána may be married but they both have side hoes). Manwë is the one who is most concerned about hetero- and cisnormativity, and that's mostly because he's having trouble interpreting Eru's will concerning the Children. And, as we've seen over the course of this fic, those barriers have started to break down (especially among the Noldor).
> 
> Since Amras and Elladan have gotten married off-screen, I tried so hard to find a place to make a "brothers-outside-the-law" joke with Amrod and Elrohir. (They aren't technically in-laws, the same way that Griffin McElroy and Rileigh Smirl aren't technically in-laws even though they consider each other family.) Alas, the opportunity never arose naturally, so I'm sharing it in the notes instead.
> 
> [I posted this fic all at once, but rest assured I would be happy to receive comments on more than just the final chapter. Thanks for reading and commenting!]


	11. Maedhros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros is bound to one of the most important people in his life, and reunited with another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA 7/15/20: This chapter now has a companion art piece, by the wonderful [@princess-faelivrin](https://princess-faelivrin.tumblr.com)! I've embedded it below, and you can check it out on tumblr [here](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/623689017946505216/there-was-fingon-walking-toward-the)!

The morning of Maedhros' wedding dawned almost as bright as the day of his rebirth, and yet today he felt more overwhelmed than he had upon returning to life. For all he and Fingon were certain of each other's love, this culmination of their relationship that had for so long been out of reach was almost too much for Maedhros to handle now that it had at last arrived.

He hadn't seen Fingon since that morning, when his fiancé had given him a sleepy kiss and rolled out of their bed to prepare for the festivities. Since then, Maedhros had been constantly surrounded by friends and family, each with their own advice to offer him on his "big day," as his mother kept calling it.

"Just remember, not much is changing," Amras told him. "You're still the same people, just—married."

Maedhros laughed shortly. "Thanks, Pityo. I hadn't realized that's what a wedding meant."

Amras rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean!"

"Leave him alone, love," Elladan said, pulling his husband away with a laugh. "He'll be fine."

Amrod managed to fanangle his way out of political obligations for the day, setting aside his duties as the governor of Tirion to attend his eldest brother's wedding. He advised Maedhros and Fingon to stay out of the court's eye for a time, let them forget about Fëanorian headaches, and Maedhros had no intentions of acting otherwise. Now that he and his Finno were finally—finally!—given leave to marry by all laws, Valarin and Noldorin both, he never wanted to go back to that court ever again. Amras had agreed to take his place as the Fëanorian representative, at least for as long as Amrod was prevented from doing so by his position as governor.

To most everyone's surprise, including his own, Moryo had offered to officiate the ceremony. In Aman, the honor was usually given to an Ainu, but neither Maedhros nor Fingon felt such a thing proper. They defaulted to the custom as it was in Beleriand, that a family member perform the duty, and Moryo volunteered.

"I don't know what else I'd do," he said gruffly as Maedhros embraced him in thanks. "I don't want to just stand around..."

Naturally, Curvo had taken it upon himself to organize the event. He delegated responsibility with an imperious air, instructing Tyelpë to write invitations, Tyelko to provide a roast for the wedding feast, Írissë to secure the venue, and so forth until everyone had a task and he was left with supervising their completion. Nerdanel and Anairë, expecting such burdens to fall to themselves as they had with the weddings of their other children, were happy to let him take control.

Maedhros' grandmother Míriel Þerindë, of course, clothed them; Indis, Finno's grandmother, assisted her. Sometimes it was hard to imagine the strife caused by Finwë's marriage to them both, such good friends were they. Maedhros was grateful to have their support, though he missed his grandfather dearly.

Tyelkormo handed over the leadership of Oromë's hunters to the Maia Ñarmotar for a time. He had long been away, busy with his new position in Oromë's absence, and Maedhros was glad to have him in close company again.

As for Oromë, he had been absent for over a year now. "It's odd," Tyelko admitted, "you'd think that if he planned on leaving for long, Manwë would have held a feast before his departure...and he ought to have given me clearer instructions."

"Perhaps the business is not official," Maedhros suggested.

Tyelko shook his head with a frown. "He said he was on an errand for Manwë."

Maedhros dared not speculate further. Tyelko had already confided his suspicions that Oromë was on some search for Maglor, and he had passed along the word to Nerdanel, Ezellë, and Daeron. They could not be certain, but Maedhros worried more for his missing brother's wellbeing than he had been in years. Nerdanel confessed that she expected to hear from Mandos concerning his death at any moment, and while Maedhros liked not to think of such things, he could not shake off his fear that Maglor was in serious trouble, for a Vala to chase after him.

On a day like this, Maglor's absence hurt even more than usual. Maedhros remembered the day of Maglor's wedding, a lifetime ago before darkness had descended upon their family: the way his father wept with joy, the pride in Nerdanel's voice as she gave him away to Ezellë, the warm glow of Aulë himself as he officiated the ceremony.

Maedhros had been busy keeping the twins, who had just begun to walk, still and quiet, but it was he whom Maglor had come to the night before, trembling with nerves. It was he who had comforted his younger brother, not only then but countless times after in both Valinórë and Middle-earth. And when their other brothers had long since perished, it was Maglor who had cared for Maedhros as he had lost his grasp on reality, it was Maglor who had alongside him taken the Silmarils in hand at last, it was Maglor who—

It was Maglor who alone of their family had survived, and thus Maglor who, ironically, could not be here.

Fëanáro and Finwë also were conspicuously absent, a reminder that in the marring of Arda not even the Valar could make things whole entirely. Finwë spoke to his family in dreams every now and again, aided by Irmo's mercy, but Fëanáro was silent.

Fingon knew how much it pained him for his family to be absent: they were his family, also. But never would that family be whole again, not until after the end of days and the remaking of Arda, and they were both tired of waiting.

"I'll pray to Irmo, tonight," Maedhros told his mother as she helped him finish applying the last of his golden paint. "Beg him to send the news along. And my—our—love."

He did not need to say to whom the message was to be sent. Nerdanel knew. She wrapped her arms around him, careful not to smudge the paint, and gave his a gentle kiss on his forehead.

"My Maitimo," she murmured. "We are all here for you."

"Not him," Maedhros admitted, blinking back tears. "With Kano and Grandfather Finwë, at least I know that they would be here if they could be. But him..."

Nerdanel put her hands on his shoulders, looking up into his eyes sternly. "We do not know his mind," she said. She smiled bitterly. "I thought I did, once. But he changed—and perhaps his time in Mandos has changed him again. I do know that he loved you, and your brothers, more than aught but those damned jewels. He loves you still, Maitimo."

"Russa?" said a hesitant voice outside the tent. Maedhros ducked his head out to see Arakáno, awkwardly standing guard.

"Yes, Arno?" he asked.

Arno's face twisted into a strange frown. "You have...a visitor. I told him you were busy, but he insisted. He hasn't even got an invititation..."

"Send him in," Maedhros said, his curiosity piqued. What uninvited visitor could this be? Amrod and Ñolofinwë had wrangled up nearly every relative they could to attend the wedding, from Findis to Eärendil to even Quildalótië and Ezellë, and he couldn't imagine who this person could be.

Arno rushed to fetch him, and Nerdanel bid him farewell with one last reassuring embrace. "You deserve this joy, Maitimo," she murmured. "Do not let your losses drag it from you."

She had only been gone a moment when the visitor slipped inside. Maedhros turned to face him, astonished to see...

"Daeron?" he asked in disbelief.

Daeron grimaced, clasping his hands behind his back. His color-changing eyes did not meet Maedhros' as he said stiffly, "Maedhros."

"What brings you here?" Maedhros asked. "The last time we spoke..."

"Was when you informed me that my long-lost husband may be dead." Daeron let out a bark of ironic laughter that shook the earth ever-so-slightly. "Yes, I remember. Well, I heard that Ezellë had been convinced to attend your wedding, so as someone else who was once married to your brother, I thought it would be cruel to not give you my congratulations. May your marriage be happier than my own."

Maedhros reached out to grasp his arm, not flinching despite the static shock that went through him at the touch. Daeron let him, though he did not return the gesture.

"Thank you," he said. "And I swear, Daeron, if there is any news..."

"Thank you," Daeron whispered. There was no breeze in the tent, but one stirred his hair all the same. "I don't know what I would do if...if we received word one way or another. I thought I could move on, but it seems he still has my heart even after all these years."

"Ezellë said much the same thing, when I told her," Maedhros admitted. "I think that is the only reason she agreed to be here. That, and she has always liked my mother." He paused, before adding, "You know, Daeron, you are welcome to stay for the ceremony, if you wish."

"Thank you, but I cannot," Daeron declined. "Maglor and I...our own ceremony was much smaller, with only a few close friends in attendance, but all the same...it reminds me too much of him. Ezellë is a strong woman, stronger than I, if she can endure it. But then, she was the one of his lovers whom your family truly embraced."

"We would call you one of our own if you wished it," Maedhros told him. "You know that, don't you?"

Daeron sighed, his eyes turning gray with melancholy. "I wish I did. Well. Good fortune, Maedhros. Tell Fingon I pass on my regards as well...for a High King of the Noldor, he did a good job. I respect him."

He slipped away, and Maedhros took a deep breath. He had to control his swirling emotions if he was to be able to hold himself together.

"Maitimo," said a familiar voice outside: his mother. "Are you ready? It's almost time."

Maedhros looked at himself in the mirror. His face and arms showed veins of gold, echoes of the scars that had so defined him in his past life. His right hand, entirely coated in paint, shimmered in the sun's fiery rays as they pierced through a flap in the tent. It was still a wonder to him every day that he had that limb to use freely. He was naturally right-handed, but he still preferred the somewhat-clumsy use of his left hand to the right that still felt in many ways unreal.

He wore white, a long robe that reached the ground, and Fëanorian red, soft leggings beneath the robe. The robe was sleeveless and open to his chest ("I didn't name you Maitimo for you to hide your beauty!" his mother had teased when she told him of her design), and upon his neck hung a silver chain with an eight-pointed star as its pendant, the symbol of his house.

Was he ready? He was not the same man he had been when he had first dreamed of this moment, when he and Finno were young and foolish and thought that perhaps their fathers would forgive each other and everything could be alright. That was before the Oath, the blood, the ash, the tears, the madness, the fire...before any stain or scar marred his flesh, before any grief wearied his mind.

But his mind was clear now, and his hröa whole again. He could not forget the past—but now, he looked also toward the future.

"I'm coming," he called out to Nerdanel, and let his mother lead him to the platform by the sea.

This was the same place that Arafinwë and Eärwen had been wed, and the High King had offered the use of his property for the occasion. It was another gesture of goodwill to them both, the third son of Finwë approving of the union between the houses of his elder brothers, but also a show of personal affection to his nephews. Not even Angaráto and Eldalótë had been given use of this place.

The seated audience was huge, sprawling all across the shore. Maedhros saw faces he knew from every chapter of his life, and many he was only vaguely familiar with, from the parts of Finno's life for which he had not been present. There had been a long three ages between Finno's rebirth and his own.

Maedhros sought the faces of his brothers. They had passed through fire and storm to arrive at this peace, and here, at last they arrived. Yes, they were missing a brother and a father and a grandfather, but here _Maedhros_ was, marrying the love of his life. He, Maedhros, most tormented of them all!

Moryo waited on the platform, dressed all in formal black. He smiled to Maedhros as he stepped forward, Nerdanel releasing him with a quiet sob.

"Ready, Nelyo?" he murmured.

Maedhros smiled. He nodded, unable to speak, for if he did he knew he would begin to weep.

Moryo glanced aside for a moment, and his breath caught. "Oh, Nelyo...you are fortunate indeed," he murmured. Maedhros followed his gaze, and his heart paused in its beating.

There was Fingon, walking toward the platform with Anairë and Nolofinwë on either side. He was resplendent, clad in a pale blue garment that swept from his shoulders to the ground, a gown with a night-dark cape trailing behind him. His dark hair was braided into a crown, intertwined with golden ribbons whose ends hung about his ears. He, too, wore a necklace, bearing the sun of Finwë that had been adopted by all the High Kings since him, wrought in shimmering blue metal to match the colors of Fingon's own house.

The sight of his beloved so radiant and joyful took Maedhros' breath away. He thought he could faint from the wonder of it all. What had he done to deserve this happiness, this glorious moment, this beautiful man?

When he looked back upon their wedding day, Maedhros could not remember all the words spoken nor the tears shed. But the sight of his Finno staring up at him with a gentle smile as they exchanged rings of promise and the necklaces bearing the emblems of their houses stayed with him forever.

They swore in the names of the Valar and of Eru, as was customary, but Maedhros was still Fëanáro's son: they took oaths, also, in each other's names—_Findekáno Astaldo Ñolofinwion, I pledge myself to thee in thy name, High King Fingon of all Noldor in ages past,_ he whispered, and in return heard the promise of his lover, _Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol Fëanárion, I pledge myself to thee in thy name, Maedhros Lord of Himring and of thy father's House_.

And then at last Moryo proclaimed them man and husband, though he said not which was which for they were both either, and Maedhros swept Finno up in his arms and kissed him like no one and everyone was watching.

Fire and storm had assuaged them, metaphorical and literal, but their fëar had endured. It had been lifetimes ago, it seemed, since their first hesitant kiss in a closet while their fathers argued in the next room—an eternity since the impossible rescue on Thangorodrim, when Finno's voice cut through his despair, and the pain of losing a hand meant nothing compared to the relief of his beloved's comfort—an incomprehensible span since the horrible moment of Finno's death on the battlefield, slain by a Balrog's fire far from where Maedhros could reach him. Ai, he had been alone and half-mad as he cast himself into that fiery chasm, wishing for it to consume him as Finno had been consumed, but even as the pain of memory pricked his fëa he felt as if it had all happened to another man.

In reality it had been ten thousand years, give or take a century, since Nelyo had first beheld his little cousin, wide-eyed and weeping as he observed the wondrous world so soon after his birth, and only a hundred since their reunion in the woods when Maedhros had been at last reborn. They had endured much in that century, but it all fell away as Maedhros kissed Findekáno, savoring the taste of his husband—husband!

They had thought this day could never come, would never come, but it _had_ and here they lived it, and Maedhros thought he could burst aflame with the joy of it.

* * *

The celebrations stretched long into the night, Finno beside him for every moment. The evening was a blur, but a happy one, and Maedhros thought that it all would have melted together into one joyful memory concluded with a night of blessed intimacy, had it not been for the astonishing arrival of an unexpected guest.

It was Írissë who noticed the sight first. Crying aloud, she pointed to the horizon where the sun was slipping at last under the line of sea: "Look! A horse upon the waves!"

Attention turned from the feasty and congratulations to the newlyweds. Maedhros couldn't take his eyes of Fingon, so radiant was he and happy, but as his husband turned to look in the direction of Írissë's pointing, his gaze followed.

Indeed, a horse galloped across the waters, shining white and growing larger as it approached the shore until it eclipsed the drowning sun. Astride him was the figure of a great man, horned and silver, and perhaps some faint shadow of a creature behind him, but Maedhros could not tell.

"My lord!" cried Tyelkormo, rushing into the waters. "Oromë has returned!"

"Oromë?" Maedhros blinked, not a little annoyed that the Vala had decided to crash his wedding. "Of all the days to return..."

Fingon laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Do not begrudge this, Maitimo," he murmured. "Perhaps we can slip away in the distraction, like we used to before our union was sanctioned..."

Maedhros laughed, his heart lightening at the thought. "We both know our mothers would have our hides for that," he teased. "And I shudder to think of what your father would say. We don't want him thinking about all the times we did that in the past, under his very nose!"

Oromë reached the shore in a blaze of silver glory, and the crowd of elves parted to let him pass. There was, indeed, some trembling figure clinging to the Vala's pelts, face buried in the furs. It was an elf, no doubt some poor creature dragged from Middle-earth to face the judgements of Mandos. Few elves who remained in the far lands were guiltless, and it was not unknown for Oromë to hunt them down...

To Maedhros' surprise, Oromë did not simply pass through the crowd on his way to Mandos. Instead he drew his great steed to a halt before Maedhros, his fangs gleaming as he smiled down at him.

"Russandol and Findekáno, my congratulations on thy marriage," he said, his voice an echo of Endórin birdsong. "May your days together be long and fruitful."

Maedhros nodded; Fingon bowed. "Thank you, my lord," murmured Finno. "We are honored to receive such a blessing."

The couple stood aside, expecting Oromë to ride hence with his prisoner. But instead the Vala raised a hand to beckon forth Tyelko, and then Maedhros' other brothers.

"I hath a gift for thee on thy wedding day, son of Fëanáro," Oromë proclaimed. "It is unfit that thy seventh brother is absent from such a celebration. Alas that he missed also the marriage of Ambarussa and Elladan, my faithful hunters."

The brothers looked to one another with confusion. Behind them, there was a gasp; out of the corner of his eye, Maedhros saw Ezellë pale and push her way out of the crowd, fleeing from the festivities and into the night.

"Our brother...?" Maedhros whispered, his heart aching with longing, not wanting Oromë to quash his newfound hope.

Oromë laughed, and turned to pry loose the grasp of the elf behind him. Slowly, terrified, the elf allowed himself to be set upon the ground, his hair falling about his face...until at last, kneeling upon the sand, he looked up and met Maedhros' gaze.

He was ages older and wearier, age lining his face in a way Maedhros had not thought possible for one of their kind. His hair was cropped just above the shoulder, blown in every wild direction from his ride across the western sea; he sported the scraggly beginnings of a beard that echoed that of his grandfather Mahtan. His eyes were the same sea-grey Maedhros knew so well, and they were haunted with the eternity of undulled horrors he had suffered alone. Scars decorated his body, some ancient and fading, others yet pink and raw; yet light—the light of the Two Trees—shone through his every pore, a glow he alone of his father's sons retained.

"Makalaurë," Maedhros wept, falling to his knees beside his brother and embracing him.

Maglor clung to him and sobbed, burying his face in Maedhros' shoulder. "Nelyo," he cried in a hoarse voice, "I—I cannot believe it is you!"

Their brothers collapsed in a pile of embraces around him, each crying with the joy of seeing him they had once thought lost to them forever. Nerdanel shouted and rushed to her final son, pushing the others aside until she alone cradled him in her arms, only to be pried from him in turn as Daeron, who had apparently not wandered far, took his turn to embrace Maglor.

"Daeron?" Maglor said in a daze. "Daeron, I'm—I'm so sorry, I—"

"Shut _up_," Daeron hissed, pulling him into a fierce and fervent kiss, but Maglor could only keep himself together for so long before he wept into his own hands once more.

Maedhros turned to kiss his own husband, and Finno, too, was crying tears of joy. "He's back," Fingon murmured between kisses, "Maitimo—he's back!"

"Yes," Maedhros said, because what else was there to say? This, _this_ truly was the happiest day of his life. It was already, to be wed to Findekáno, but with his husband in hand and Maglor at last returned to Aman, everything was finally falling back into place.

How fitting it was that this journey began a hundred years prior at daybreak, Maedhros thought, and concluded now at dusk. The stars shone brightly, Eärendil's Silmaril safekept on his ship and not present at the wedding nor in the sky; they were free, _free_ of the Oath and at last reunited. They had fought the odds and won, taken their second chance and made the most of it!

Not _everything_ was settled quite yet, Maedhros had to admit. There was still the matter of Maglor's story, his own healing outside of the Timeless Halls, his struggle to find a place in Aman and his resolution with all his loved ones. But Maglor would not take the journey alone: he had the support of his six brothers who had tread this path already, and were there to carry him if need be.

But Maedhros' struggle was ended. The tale of pain and woe borne from the Silmarils at last came to a close with their family made whole again, Fëanáro's damnation not withstanding, and as Maglor lifted his voice into a hoarse and ragged song yet filled with unbridled joy, Maedhros smiled and laughed into the ocean winds. Yes, a new story of their own making could now begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> re: the line "through fire and through the storm": This line is from the song [Ulysses](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GDicGYxxI0) by Adele McAllister. She is my favorite Tolkien singer/songwriter, and while that song isn't technically about the Silm, it gives me massive Silm vibes and I love it SO MUCH. I tossed around using that line, or another one from the same song, as the title for this fic, but it didn't quite fit the storyline.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope Maglor's return was felt both well-forshadowed and still a twist! I couldn't not bring him back :')  
I have ideas about Maglor's time in Middle-earth, how Oromë found him and brought him back to Valinor, and what his relationships with his family, Daeron, and Ezellë will look like now that he's returned...but that's for another fic :)  
ETA 10/13/19: I've written a fic about Ezelle and Maglor's reunion - check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20980976%C2%A0)!
> 
> For another take on Maglor's return to Valinor, see [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18192935).
> 
> ETA 4/15/20: If you want to read the prequel to this fic about our boys in Mandos, check out [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23675974)!
> 
> Some final plugs: You should absolutely check out Isilloth's [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isilloth) and [tumblr](http://isilloth.tumblr.com/), as well as the Tolkien RSB's [AO3 collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TolkienRSB_19) and [tumblr](http://tolkienrsb.tumblr.com/)! My own tumblr is [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/), and guess what? This isn't the only fic I wrote for this event! Check out the (significantly shorter) Gigolas fic I wrote [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20340112), complete with illustrations by the talented [ginogollum](https://ginogollum.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Thank you so very much for coming on this journey with me, and even more for your (*hint hint*) comments! <3  
(And if you really loved this fic, there's a link on [my tumblr](http://arofili.tumblr.com/) to my ko-fi page...)


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